Uncharted Territory

by Betsy Ashton

  “I sure as hell am not going to turn away. If the sheriff won’t help, we’ll find someone who will.” Johnny sat up straighter.

  “Just not us. Okay? Okay?”

  Neither man said “okay.” I stared out the truck window. I was as sick as the barren land.

  I didn’t want any of us working on another murder case. If we had to get involved, though, I had a small bit of evidence in my pocket. I’d recorded the entire conversation on my cell phone. I hoped my recording was clear. If we ever had a chance to challenge Sheriff ‘I don’t do racial profiling, but if I did, I start with you’ Hardy, I had proof he discriminated against Latinos. Probably broke a federal law or twenty.

  “First thing, gonna put all the crews on high alert,” Whip said.

  “Like Homeland Security? We went from yellow to orange?” I blinked hard to control my tears. My hopes for a normal life without drama blew right out the open truck window.

  “Don’t want it to go to red.”

  ####

  Whip and Johnny dropped me at the dorm before driving back to the gate to talk with our guard, Sampson. As I opened the door, I glanced over at Sampson, who pulled up his shirttail to expose a gun in his waistband. Well, well. We did have an armed guard. If the sheriff played ostrich about murder, it wouldn’t surprise me if he encouraged local troublemakers to increase their intimidation. Troublemakers like the black men seen with Spot and Goth Boy.

  I paced the empty dorm until I de-fumed enough to be civil. I went over to the bus to report in and found a note on the door: “Max, I’m at the beach with the kids. They needed to kick around a soccer ball.”

  Good thing they weren’t here. I was so pissed off, I’d say too much. I picked up my shoulder bag and went calling.

  ####

  “Come in and rest yourself, Miz Davies. You got a world of thunder on your face.” As before, Pastor Taylor waved me to my favorite folding chair and brought a bottle of chilled water. It didn’t take me long to begin my rant about justice and racism.

  “Now hold up a minute. I missed somethin’.” The pastor held up a hand. “I’m pretty sure I can’t listen as fast as you talk. You take a deep breath and start from the top.”

  “I told you about the three bodies found out in that bayou.”

  The pastor nodded.

  “One was from our crew. His head was bashed in.” I took the advised breath. “Help me understand something, Pastor Taylor. Do all sheriffs around here behave like a Dodge Boy?”

  “Dodge Boy?” The pastor scratched his head. “Big fat blowhard? Good one, Miz Davies. I see you’ve met our illustrious Sheriff Forrest Hardy.”

  “I have.” I picked at the label on my water bottle with a thumbnail. “I wasn’t impressed.”

  “Forrest’s the only one who’s impressed with himself. He’s as mean as a snake and twice as wily. Be sure you give him a wide berth. He’ll cause your workers no end of grief if anyone gets crosswise of him. You didn’t…”

  “Shoot my mouth off?”

  The pastor grinned.

  “Pastor Taylor, we barely know each other, and already you have me nailed.”

  “Well, you’re a woman of strong opinions, Miz Davies. Such women can be hard for us Southern men to take.”

  “Sometimes just me being me pisses people off.” I knew my weaknesses. I couldn’t always control them. “Rest assured, I waited until we were way down the highway before I had a tantrum. Unless the sheriff bugged Whip’s truck, he couldn’t have overheard what I said. I’m not going to repeat it, because I wasn’t polite.”

  I relaxed for the first time all day thanks to Pastor Taylor’s unflappable demeanor.

  “You know, you remind me much of my dear momma, rest her soul.”

  “Your mother?” I wasn’t that much older than the pastor.

  “She used to say ‘To get ahead in life, a woman has to be two-thirds lady and one-third bitch.’”

  I laughed harder than I had in days. “My second mother-in-law turned the phrase around. ‘You have to be one-third lady and two-thirds bitch.’ Either way, it fits.”

  When I regained my composure, Pastor Taylor stood. It was time to leave, but he surprised me. “Have you met Pastor Washington over at the AME tent yet?”

  I shook my head. I’d stopped by several times, even left a note in an envelope with my personal card with my name and number on it, but I had yet to hear from him.

  “It’s past time you met. I’ll warn you, though. Roland can be tetchy.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Mississippi, week of October 10

  I pulled the Rover to a stop in front of a battered tent.

  A pear-shaped black man with a shaved head raised a hand to his eyes. He squinted into the sun. “That you, Hodge? Whatchu doin’ with dat woman?”

  “Now don’t be like that, Roland. I came to introduce Miz Davies.”

  “Not to be rude, Miz Davies, but why’d I want to know you?” Pastor Washington barked a deep, dry-rasp of a cough. He planted fists on wide hips and stood his ground.

  “I told you he can be tetchy. Roland, meet Maxine Davies. Miz Davies, this is Pastor Washington.”

  We shook hands. I looked into untrusting dark eyes under thick brows.

  “You left notes for me.”

  “I did.”

  Pastor Washington dug into the rear pocket of tired khakis and pulled out my card which was crumpled and dirty. “Why’d you think I’d want this?”

  I’d blown it. Back in New York, I left cards with people I met. My ingrained habit didn’t play well in Mississippi.

  “I meant no harm, Pastor Washington. I left it in case you wanted to contact me.”

  “If I wanted to talk to you, I’d have driven over to Hodge’s parkin’ lot. Hard to miss where you’re livin’.” He stuffed the card back in his pocket.

  “Point taken.”

  “Why don’t you invite us in?” Pastor Taylor reminded the black clergyman I was a guest in his house of worship, even if I was unwelcome.

  We followed the cough under the tent and onto a concrete slab where we sat on more folding chairs. Did all churches around here come with folding chairs? Was it a Kmart special?

  “You sound bad, Roland.”

  “Gave up cigarettes ten years ago. I’m allergic to mold and dust. Nothin’ much else here since the waters receded and the mud dried up. So, I cough.”

  Pastor Taylor summarized the threats against Ducks, the dead bodies and Sheriff Hardy in a couple of succinct sentences. Pastor Washington’s face darkened further.

  “Forrest Hardy’s got less sense than pond scum. That man’s a danger to hisself and everyone ’round him.”

  “I agree, Pastor Washington. I’m worried. Someone’s stalking our crews, trying to drive off anyone they think is Mexican.”

  “Prob’ly.” The black minister shrugged. “Prob’ly. Lots of folks don’t cotton to outsiders comin’ in and tellin’ us what to do.”

  “I don’t know about telling people what to do. We came down to help rebuild your roads.” I kept my tone even.

  “By yourselves, from the looks of it.”

  “If you mean because we’re from elsewhere, that’s right. No local men or women answered our calls for workers. We’ll hire them on the spot if they’ll raise a hand.”

  Pastor Washington said nothing. I was pretty certain he didn’t believe me.

  “I’m worried about the safety of my grandchildren. I need to know they aren’t in danger. Can you help?”

  “They look Mexican?”

  “Well, not Em. She has pink hair today.”

  “Seen her out runnin’. Pretty little thing.”

  “Thank you. Alex, my grandson, is deeply tanned, but his hair’s so sun bleached no one would mistake him for anything other than he is.”

  “What would that be?”

  “A bloody pain in the ass, to quote his homeschool teacher. His sister calls him holy-crap boy-child.”

  For the first tim
e since I stepped out of the Rover, Pastor Washington stopped frowning. White teeth flashed in a damp face.

  “I got one like that. Sent him up north with his grandmama until we got some place to live. Call him ‘Rascal.’ He’s eight.”

  “Captain Chaos is eleven, going on zero if he doesn’t behave.”

  “Miz Davies, you have a way with words.”

  “Thank you.” Not content with a small victory, I opened an imaginary can of worms, grabbed a fork and ate. During my discourse about the missing workers and three dead people, I mentioned the two black men driving the stolen truck. Pastor Washington’s smile vanished so quickly I was no longer sure I’d ever seen it.

  “You sayin’ black men’s doin’ the killin?’”

  “That’s not what I’m saying, Pastor, but one of our men was murdered. His head was bashed in. Two men and two teens are running around in another missing man’s truck. The teens have been following my grandchildren. I’m afraid.”

  “The boys are our feral teens. Jake Montgomery and Danny Ray.” Pastor Taylor stepped in.

  “Damn. Not those two. I hoped the storm took ’em inland.”

  “If it did, they’re back. One of the men they’re with is covered with tattoos and heavily muscled. The other has a shaved head and earrings.”

  Pastor Washington’s brows drew closer together. He nodded but remained silent. I wasn’t going to get any support from this quarter. Jeez.

  When I dropped Pastor Taylor off at his church, he said, “Roland’s okay, but he’s suspicious of white folks. Took me most of a year to get to a first-name basis.”

  “Does he dislike all white folks or Northern white folks in particular?”

  “Yes.”

  “Both, huh?”

  “He calls Yankees ‘three one twos.’”

  I thought for a second. “Chicago area code?”

  “That’s right.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  Mississippi, week of October 10

  I drove along an unrepaired secondary road, avoiding the worst potholes, finding the best packed dirt. I was no calmer after my visit with the two pastors than I’d been before. This broken land attracted broken people who preyed on weaker people. Well, they weren’t going to prey on me or my family. No way, no how. I patted the new friend in my handbag. Mess with me, you jerks, and you’ll find out just how good a shot I am.

  Raney was right. Getting involved in something outside my insular family would be one way to shake off my funk. Sitting around talking with Johnny and Ducks and Whip was fine, but it wasn’t enough. I didn’t see a warm let’s-have-a-cup-of-coffee relationship developing with either pastor. Habitat for Humanity might do the trick.

  I had no trouble finding the site because the partially constructed houses were the only new structures in the area. Besides, signs were everywhere: parking, main construction tent, supply tent, mess hall. I pulled the Rover in beside a maroon-and-white RV and hopped out. A sheriff’s cruiser slowed before moving along the broken road.

  I filled my lungs. Wonderful. Raw lumber. No rot or decay. Nothing but the clean smell of pine. Electric saws whined; workers pounded nails into boards.

  I hadn’t realized how late it was. I’d spent more time with the pastors than I planned. It must be close to quitting time. People were standing around chatting.

  “Max?”

  I hadn’t expected to hear my name. I recognized Val, the woman we’d met in the Walmart parking lot. We both waved.

  “I knew you’d find us.” Val gave me the kind of impulsive hug strangers who were kindred spirits gave each other. “You had that look about you.”

  “What kind of look is that?” I warmed to this woman.

  “Rich bitch who can’t sit around doing nothing all day. Just like me. You’re a born volunteer.” Val put her arm around my waist to steer me into the complex.

  “I was going to call you, but I figured I’d stop by.”

  “Hank’s here somewhere.” Val looked around and yoo-hooed at her husband. “I told you Max would show up.”

  “Welcome to Hope Village.” Hank pulled off a dirty work glove and shook my hand, two old friends who had recently met. “Where’s Johnny?”

  “Working. He and my son-in-law are rebuilding route ninety.”

  “I have to run, Max,” Val said. “I need to check on dinner.”

  “Before you leave, Val, you need to know something’s happening to the road crews.” I took all of a minute to paint the ugly picture of attacks and threats. “One of our guys was murdered, and several others are missing.”

  “Tell the leader. I’ll spread the word among the Care-a-Vanners. We’ll keep a sharp watch for these guys.” Val gave me another hug.

  “Lock your doors. Oh, and don’t expect any help from the local sheriff. He doesn’t like us, and all but told Johnny he’d be glad if we all went away or died.” I hated sounding angry, but I was pissed as hell.

  “You poor dear,” was all Hank said.

  Before I knew what was happening, Hank led me to the main construction tent. He was less forceful than Val but every bit as effective. He had a live one and wanted to introduce me to the Habitat leader.

  I spent half an hour with the leader, Gayle Hollins, telling her about myself and the children. Alex was far too young, but she needed painters for the finished houses badly enough to bend the rules for Emilie. I agreed we’d show up on the coming Saturday. We exchanged cell numbers.

  When a truck honked its horn, the village buzzed with renewed energy. Voices shouted. People cheered and clapped.

  “Thank God, they’re here.” Gayle ran out of the construction tent before I could figure out what was happening. A heavy-duty pickup towing a large shiny trailer pulled up beside several RVs. Painted on the side of the trailer was God’s Pit Crew. Three more trucks followed.

  “These guys are from a church in southwestern Virginia. They came down a couple of weeks ago, right after we did.” Hank had been lingering outside the construction tent to see how I made out with Gayle. “They have a complete workshop in the trailer. I can’t tell you how grateful we are for their skilled hands. Come on over. If it’s the same guys, you’ve got to meet them.”

  Hank introduced me to eight men in about as many seconds. I forgot every name except for the driver, “Ronny Howard, like the actor.” He looked nothing like the kid who played Opie in the old Andy Griffith Show. What stuck in my brain was his accent. It was so unintelligible I’d rather have my ears removed with a cheese grater than listen to him for long.

  “I have to get back to our compound. See you Saturday.”

  Hank slapped me on the back. I was one of the guys.

  Okay, one down. Emilie was taken care of. What did I do with Alex? Should I ask him? Yes.

  When I pulled into our compound and parked the Rover, a boy slipped behind a pile of debris outside the perimeter. Spot, the left-behind who never had a chance.

  After signing up at Habitat and having warned them to be careful, after learning we had an armed guard at the gate, I should feel better. I didn’t. I’d plain old run out of interest in the day.

  One worker came back from working on a side road. He’d been pelted with rocks and bottles by two guys in a ratty truck. He had a deep cut on his forehead. I sat him down at the picnic table and fetched our replenished first aid kit. I cleaned the wound and put a butterfly bandage over the cut. It wasn’t deep enough to require stitches, but he had to keep it clean. I handed him a tube of antiseptic salve.

  “They got me with a beer bottle, Abuelita.” He held up a paper bag. “I didn’t touch it. I don’t know if it’ll ever be useful, though.”

  I sent him off. I waited outside the dorm absentmindedly counting the returning men.

  “Only the guy with the cut was hurt.” Ducks crept up behind me. I tried to jump out of my sneakers. “The others are safe.”

  “How do you know? Did Em tell you?” I crammed my heart back in my chest.

  Ducks shook hi
s head. As I entered the dorm, I felt a feather brush my cheek.

  You’re one too, huh? I didn’t speak aloud. I didn’t have to. Warmth from Emilie and an attack by the mysterious feather confirmed my suspicion: I had two different kinds of spooks watching out for me.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  Mississippi, week of October 17

  Even though I didn’t feel personally threatened, I needed Raney to give me a second opinion on whether I should keep the kids in Mississippi. Would being in a dangerous environment be detrimental to their healing so soon after their mother’s murder?

  “You should stay unless you and the kids are in physical danger,” Raney said.

  “We aren’t yet, but I never anticipated how hard it would be living without civilization.”

  “This is more of your doo-wop. What a great object lesson for Alex and Em.”

  I needed to keep reminding myself I had a do-over, Eleanor’s doo-wop, on raising kids, but this parenting gig caused me to over-examine my actions. I was no longer the spontaneous woman I was before Merry’s accident.

  “I’ve never known you to be a quitter.” Raney threw down a challenge.

  I was no quitter. Not when each of my husbands died. Not when Merry was injured. Not when she was murdered. Not now.

  “Look, you woke up this morning, didn’t you?”

  That was obvious. “Yes.”

  “That gives you another chance to change something.”

  She was right. I’d taken a few small steps forward on a path into uncharted territory. Time to take a whole heck of a lot more.

  I’d warned the two Baptist preachers, but I had one last church to visit. I stopped at St. Anna’s before setting off for my weekly excursion to town. A recovering Catholic, I grew up in a solid fieldstone church. I’d visited cathedrals in Europe and loved the empty spaces filled with God light pouring through stained glass windows. St. Anna’s was a humble, single-story brick building, damaged but not destroyed. It was locked.

  A rectory or manse stood beside the church, half hidden from the road. I knocked. After a full minute, a pale but pretty child of around ten opened the door. Her dark eyes grew round when she saw me.