Uncharted Territory

by Betsy Ashton

  With no voles or mice in evidence, no cats prowled. In the alleys near my apartment and in Central Park across the street, I often caught glimpses of feral cats slinking about on the hunt. No stray dogs, either. The landscape had been scrubbed clean.

  When I scouted the area during our first days here, I found a few structures had survived Katrina. A couple miles up the road was a battered brick church without its cross and steeple, which probably landed in Tennessee. A twisted message board said Catholic services were held monthly. A heavily-damaged building, scoured to bare metal on its southern side and wearing a bright blue FEMA tarp instead of most of its roof, stood alone at the edge of an empty field. Johnny had told me tents were popping up, and Habitat for Humanity was building homes.

  That must be where Valerie and Hank and the rest of the Care-a-Vanners were. I needed to look them up. They were my kind of people.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Mississippi, week of October 3

  Johnny walked back from the cook tent. When he spotted me in the gathering area, he stopped long enough to kiss my cheek.

  “Whatcha going to do today, pretty lady?”

  “It’s time to pay a call on our landlord.”

  “Don’t get into any mischief.”

  “Do I ever, funny man?”

  “Not enough recently. See you at dinner.”

  Johnny got about halfway to his truck when he turned. “Those boys are still hanging around.”

  “I don’t trust them.”

  “Me neither.” Johnny walked off.

  “I’ll ask Em if she feels they should be watched.”

  “They should.” The words drifted toward me on a gentle morning breeze.

  After Ducks’s encounter with the men in the stolen truck, I needed information. From my childhood experience the clergy was far more connected to local events than they acknowledged. At least my childhood priest was. Pastor Taylor, the Baptist minister and owner of the parking lot where we lived, might know something. I hoped so. I needed to feel less unsettled.

  I pulled up beside the battered metal building about a mile farther inland from the Catholic church. What had once been a warehouse now served as church, youth center, and living quarters, according to Johnny.

  “Wondered when you were goin’ to stop by and say hello. After all, you’re campin’ in my parkin’ lot, aren’t you?” A disheveled man held out his hand. “Name’s Hodge Taylor.”

  “Maxine Davies, but everyone calls me Max.”

  “Come on in, Miz Davies. I’ve watched you drive past several times.” The pastor sounded like his ancestors had been in the South since before the War. “Glad you found time to be sociable.”

  “How…?” I stopped. “Of course. Strange woman in the area, Land Rover with New York plates. You’re right. I should have come over earlier. I have no excuse except I’ve been busy being busy. I’m sorry.”

  “Well, you’re here now. Rest yourself.” Pastor Taylor waved me toward a metal folding chair. “I’m afraid this is all I have. Katrina stole most else.”

  “That’s not a problem.” I sat.

  “Would you like some sweet tea? I just made a pitcher.”

  My expression gave me away. I’d tried sweet tea once and nearly spit it on the floor.

  “Or water?” Did I see a twinkle in his eye?

  “Water, please, if I won’t be insulting.”

  “You won’t. I find Northerners don’t take kindly to our favorite beverage.” He handed me a bottle of chilled water.

  “I’ve tried it, but I don’t like it.” I opened the water and sipped.

  “Always order un-sweet tea in a restaurant. When we have restaurants again, that is. You’ll be safe.”

  While we settled into get-acquainted small talk, I took a good look at our landlord. Middle-aged, thinning hair, glasses, medium height, twinkling eyes, and sun burnt.

  “I’m curious, Pastor Taylor, where are all the families? The kids?”

  “Elsewhere.”

  “Elsewhere?”

  “Look around, Miz Davies. Aren’t too many places left to live in. Where have my families gone? Everywhere but here.” The twinkle left his eyes. “For too many, their whole world is gone.”

  I could empathize with his pain. Had there ever been such a mass exodus of displaced people in the US before? It was our own Diaspora.

  “Will they come back?”

  “It’s home, so, yes, most will. It’s hard to imagine right now, what with no public services or housing.” Pastor Taylor’s face had the thousand-yard stare of someone on a first name basis with loss and grief. “I haven’t found most of my families. Some drowned in the storm. Some fled to safer areas. Others went to live with relatives out of state. A few I have no idea about.”

  I could understand his sadness. After any disaster, natural or man-made, people scattered. Tracking them could be a full-time effort. Even then, many stayed scattered.

  “This is poor country, Miz Davies. People didn’t have much before. Now they have nothin’.” Pastor Taylor looked around his metal building. “Most shopped at Goodwill until they earned a bit of change. Then they went to Kmart or Walmart.”

  “Would jobs bring families back?” Like Johnny and Whip, I wanted more local people rebuilding the roads. “Good paying jobs?”

  “Sure would help.”

  “There’s plenty of work in highway construction. My son-in-law will hire as many people, skilled and unskilled, as you can send his way.” Hadn’t he seen the “Help Wanted” signs on every remaining post and tree?

  “Good to hear. Thought you might be importin’ laborers.”

  “We are, but only because no local men or women turned out.”

  “I’ll spread the word.” Pastor Taylor walked to a long table and poured himself another glass of sweet tea. “You’re sure you won’t join me?”

  I shook my head and raised a half-full bottle of water.

  “It’s such a Southern thing, like two first names, callin’ everyone Miz or Mister, usin’ a family name for a given name. Take mine. Hodge is my mother’s family.” Pastor Taylor chuckled and returned to his chair. “Now, what did you come for, Miz Davies?”

  “I’m looking for information.” I lifted the water bottle, and a drop of condensation fell on my knee.

  “What kind of information?” Pastor Taylor didn’t so much as squirm on his uncomfortably hard chair, while my backside cried out for a cushion.

  “I’m a fish out of water here, but I get the feeling something’s all wrong. It makes me worry about my grandchildren’s safety.”

  “I’ve seen the girl out jogging.”

  “That’s Emilie.”

  “She has pink hair.” One eyebrow raised.

  “Today. Who knows what color it’ll be tomorrow.”

  “Then the holy terror on the bike is your grandson.”

  “Alex has more energy than his skin can contain. The bike should be a safe way to burn it off.” I paused. “Now I’m not so sure.”

  “There’s trouble about. That’s for certain.”

  “A couple of boys have been following my granddaughter.” A hint of worry grew into a frown.

  “Tell me about them.”

  I did in as much detail as I could remember.

  “I know them. Your Goth Boy is Danny Ray. His family’s been here for generations. He’s got a record for minor crimes, mostly stealin’. You know, nuisance stuff. He thinks he’s a vampire.”

  “That explains the Goth look. Is he a member of your church?”

  “Danny’s not a member of anythin’. He quit school at fifteen and has been hangin’ around the outskirts of civilization ever since.” Pastor Taylor’s face was set in rigid planes. “Damned fool kid.”

  “How about the other white boy? My granddaughter calls him Spot. He has bad acne.”

  “Odd you say ‘white boy.’”

  “Goth Boy and Spot are hanging around with two older black men. They harassed my homeschool teacher t
he day before yesterday. When he was out riding his bike early in the morning, they tried to run him off the road before asking if he was Mexican.”

  “Is he? Mexican?”

  “Red-haired Englishman.”

  Pastor Taylor nodded. “I’ve seen him out and about. He rides very fast.”

  “He does. That’s why I never ride with him.”

  “I’ve never known either boy to run with blacks. Mostly, blacks and whites keep to their own kind, but with all this disruption, maybe it’s not strange they’re runnin’ together.”

  “Overt racism?”

  “Not really, Miz Davies. It’s just the way things have always been. Anyway, Spot’s Jake Montgomery. Never been tested that I know, but I’d guess he has a mild form of autism, prob’ly Asperger’s Syndrome. Always behind in school, slow to talk, not retarded, but his brain works different from ours. Not the same kind of outsider as Danny Ray.”

  Was this who’d been stalking Emilie? A kid looking for a friend? How did these two boys end up left behind when the storm hit? “Do you know anything about their families?”

  “Jake was lost soon as he was born. No one knows who his daddy was, but his mama was the town drunk. Kept a still and sold white lightnin’ for cigarette money.” Pastor Taylor walked to the open doorway and leaned against the jamb. He looked off to the east.

  “Did she mistreat the boy?”

  “Not unless you call ignorin’ him mistreatment. But no, I never knew her to hit him much, if that’s where you’re goin’.”

  “It was.”

  Pastor Taylor gave me a pretty clear picture of the dysfunctional nature of the Montgomery household. Even when he tried to help get Jake tested, his mother slammed the door in the pastor’s face. “She didn’t truck with any fancy stuff. Called me all sorts of names. Anyway, Jake’s always been harmless.”

  “Let’s hope he stays that way.”

  “You can say that again.” Pastor Taylor uttered a near silent tsk tsk. “Danny Ray, on the other hand, well, he’s got a mean streak in him a mile wide, but I haven’t known him to hurt anyone. Intimidate, maybe, but not do any physical harm. Like I said, we’re in new times. No tellin’ what he could get into or who could influence him.”

  I didn’t want either boy to turn to violence.

  “These boys’re feral, Miz Davies. No one cared for them before the storm. When the warnings sounded, Danny’s mother lit out. Jake’s mother ran with her two daughters. I don’t know if she abandoned the kid, or if he wasn’t home when she left.”

  Could such mothers exist? Oh, wait. My very own daughter found it inconvenient to be a mother. Merry told me right before she was murdered.

  “I’d be beside myself if I couldn’t find one of my grandchildren.”

  “Best to keep your granddaughter away from them.”

  “I’m trying to.”

  Pastor Taylor gave me something new to worry about. Life had taken yet another difficult turn. I picked up my overly large shoulder bag.

  “One more thing, Pastor Taylor. Several of the laborers have gone missing.”

  Pastor Taylor frowned. “Missin’?”

  I told him what little we knew about Johnny finding the bodies and some men not returning to work after a weekend. “We know one of the bodies was one of our workers.”

  “And the others?”

  “One was a woman. Might have been a local. The other is unknown. White male, thirty something, very well groomed.”

  “I’ll check with the sheriff about the woman. The man might have been one of the workers in a Gulfport or Biloxi casino.”

  I slung my bag over my shoulder.

  “I’ll ask around.”

  “Please be careful.”

  “I will. You too.”

  “Thank you for your hospitality.” We exchanged cell numbers before shaking hands.

  Why the hell couldn’t I have a normal life without danger and drama? For a year maybe. Or a few months. Even a few weeks. Tomorrow.

  ####

  That night, half a dozen men came to our side of the compound. They’d appointed Pete, the cook, as their spokesman.

  “Abuelita, bad men are around. We’ve seen them.” Pete twisted his ball cap between his hands. He spoke in Spanish. “We’ve talked together. We all have children at home. We’ll watch over yours like they’re our own. We’ll help keep them safe.”

  I walked to Pete’s posse, shook each man’s hand and thanked them. I swallowed hard to clear the lump in my throat. The men nodded and returned to their side of the camp. I held Johnny’s hand.

  “Abuelita?”

  “Little aunt.”

  “I know what it means.” I was puzzled by its usage.

  “Auntie is a term of respect. They gave you their word of honor. Nothing will happen to Alex and Em if they can help it.”

  I put my head on Johnny’s shoulder and wept.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Mississippi, week of October 10

  Almost two weeks passed before we heard anything definitive from the sheriff about the dead people in the bayou. When he called, we learned the second man didn’t survive. The coroner ruled the cause of death for all three was blunt force trauma to the skull. Big whoop! Johnny’s original observations told us that. More outrageous, the coroner ruled the deaths accidental. Accidental, my ass. If they were, how did three bodies end up dumped in stinking mud in the same spot on top of each other?

  Johnny, Whip, and I drove over to his makeshift office to make arrangements to send our worker’s body home to his family.

  “Someone’s killing your illegals.” The sheriff threw out an unsubstantiated claim.

  “‘Illegals?’ I count one dead construction worker.” Johnny’s tone was even, but I heard the threat behind his innocuous words. “And a dead woman of who knows what race and a well-groomed white man.”

  “Don’t give me any lip, asshole. All you greasers are illegal as far as I’m concerned. We didn’t have no crime around here until your kind showed up.” The sheriff’s lip curled. “Take your bodies and git.”

  “Let’s set the record straight, Sheriff. One is a worker. We’ll take care of it.”

  “Take what you want. I’ll dump the rest.”

  Dump? Wasn’t that what had happened in the first place? Cold sweat slicked my breasts.

  “I resent you calling these men working to rebuild your fucking highways illegals. Our workers are American citizens.” Whip’s red face attested to the difficulty he was having controlling his temper.

  “You watch your mouth.” The sheriff’s face was mottled with rage. Three alpha males faced off and struggled for supremacy. One had an unconcealed gun on his hip. “I don’t give a rat’s ass if they’ve been here since before Columbus. They’re greasers. We don’t want ’em here.”

  “But…” Johnny strove for a cooler tone. He almost achieved it. “What are you going to do about our murdered friend?”

  “Not a goddamned thing. Coroner says it was an accident. Don’t see anyone getting murdered ’round here. Don’t care if your kind gets killed.”

  “So, you aren’t going to investigate the missing men, either?” Whip asked in order to have everything spelled out.

  “Hell no. They’re doing me a favor by getting the fuck out of my county. Git out of my office if you know what’s good for you.”

  I climbed into the back seat of Whip’s truck. I couldn’t wait to get away from that awful Dodge Boy. I waited until we were miles down the road before throwing a pink and purple hissy fit. I think I scared the crap out of Whip when I drummed my feet on the truck’s floorboard. Not the smartest thing to do when the driver’s already wound tighter than a yoyo.

  “How can that jerk say he doesn’t care if you get killed? And no crime before Katrina? Get real.”

  “Sheriffs in these small towns are all alike, Max. They’re elected. They strut and posture and bluster about solving crimes, but they do diddly-squat.” Johnny turned to look at me. His cheeks
were drawn, leaving a scar from a childhood knife fight more prominent than ever. “Hardy’ll pretend to take a tough stand to keep his job when he comes up for re-election. Until then, he’ll do as little as possible.”

  “Not all that much different from the dipshit district attorney in Richmond who tried to convict me of murder.” Whip had gone through hell after he was wrongly charged with murdering his wife, my only daughter.

  “But…”

  “He looks at me and other Latinos and sees little people he can intimidate. Hell, he might encourage his guys to hassle anyone who’s DWH.” Johnny smiled at me, a smile that didn’t reach his eyes.

  “DWH?”

  “Driving While Hispanic.”

  “But racial profiling’s against the law.” I was so angry I shook the car. Or, maybe it was the rough road. Either way, the car shook.

  “Apparently not around here.”

  Johnny shifted to face forward. He stared out the window at the dead landscape rattling past us. Whip missed missing a pothole. My teeth chattered.

  “You don’t think he’s behind the killing, do you?” I was shocked at how controlled these two stubborn men appeared.

  “No, but I’d bet a hundred bucks he knows who is.” Whip ground his teeth. “Someone other than Sheriff Hardy has to prove it.”

  “None of this makes any sense. We’re here helping, and this small-town piss ant sheriff wants us driven off.” My state of mind redefined puzzled. I was sorrowfully confused.

  “If it doesn’t make sense, then we don’t have all the facts.” Johnny sounded calmer than Whip, but the pulse in his jaw told a different story. “We need to get them.”

  “Oh no. No, no, no. We are so not going to solve another crime. Not this one.” I was on the verge of a major tantrum. I stamped my foot again.

  Whip held up his right hand. “Settle down. Could be that’s how it’s done here.”

  “How can you be so goddamned calm?” I wanted to rage at someone. Whip wasn’t helping by being as stoic as a rock.