by Betsy Ashton
“This priest has you spooked, doesn’t he, Max?” Raney said.
I copied Emilie by playing with a pasta shell. Eleanor’s dining room was safe, normal, and peaceful, yet my emotions refused to be still. “I don’t go looking for trouble, if that’s what you’re thinking. It finds me.”
“She’s right, Auntie Raney. She went looking for kids Alex’s and my ages,” Emilie poked at a bit of broccoli. “She found a child with more problems than I had last year.”
“Mysteries will always fall in your lap.” Eleanor ate a last bite of pasta. “You are a magnet for people in need.”
“I never looked at myself that way, but life has a way of changing who we are when we least expect it.”
The four of us kicked around ideas for helping the Sanchezes. All boiled down to the same thing: getting them away from Father Alvarado. Heck, I knew that. We came up with no new ideas, but I had more people on my team once again.
“No matter what you decide to do, you will rescue this child before she can be injured in a profound way.” Eleanor rang for her maid to clear the table.
“How to do it is driving me batty-whacko.” I folded my napkin before laying it beside my plate.
####
Emilie and I stayed at the apartment Thursday and Friday nights under a strict promise to Corey not to peek in the den. Corey had finished it but wanted to be there when I went inside for the first time. He’d even sealed it with a made-up crime scene sticker. On Saturday we ran errands and shopped for necessities. When we returned, George, my doorman, greeted us.
“Mr. Corey’s upstairs.”
Another big reveal, the final one of my redecorating, was due. I rang the bell. Instead of Corey opening the door, Ben stood inside, arms crossed across his chest.
“Well, you ruined my masterpiece.” He turned on his heel and marched down the hall.
Emilie raised an eyebrow and bit her lips. We stowed our purchases in the closet and walked to the living room. Corey waited on the couch. He waved his hand around the room. Artwork hung on the walls. We had space for more paintings and prints, but for now the sparse decorations satisfied me. Emilie walked from painting to bookshelf and back.
“It’s so warm and comfortable, Mad Max.” She stopped before the head of a Cambodian Buddha. “I could live here forever.”
“Well, I can’t,” came a cutting remark from the kitchen. “Go ahead, put the knife in my heart. We eat soon.”
“Eat?” My raised eyebrow was directed toward Corey.
“Ben offered to fix us a celebratory dinner.” Corey raised his eyes toward the ceiling.
“Will he poison us?” Emilie whispered.
“I heard that.” Ben called from the kitchen. “I won’t poison you, but I might spill the salt in the coq au vin.”
Ben might have gotten over his snit, but he wanted to rub my nose in my choices.
“Come see the den. Ben helped with it.”
Oh, dear God. Ben could have painted the walls purple to get even. Corey led the way.
“Break the seal and open the door.” Corey moved toward the den. Ben walked up behind him. I did as told.
Ben had transformed the den from a man’s lair to a place for me to read, write, and watch television. The walls, once hunter green, were washed with pale wheat paint striated to look like grass. A sisal carpet covered the floor. Two reading chairs and a small couch wore soft green patterned fabric. The focal point was the bookshelves. Painted creamy white with the original dark green paint on the wall behind, the facing edges of each shelf were burnished brass. Ben and Corey alternated shelves of books with family photos, small art works and sculptures. At the far end of the room was a large white cabinet.
“Look at this, Mrs. Davies.” Ben pushed past us in his rush to show off the cabinet. A complete entertainment system, flat screen television, multiple speakers, iPod docking station, and CD and DVD players were tucked away.
“It all folds out of sight,” Emilie said.
“There’s more. In that smaller one on the opposite wall is your messy desk.” Ben rolled his eyes. “Nothing says tacky quicker than a computer screen and printer.”
“Thank you, Ben. I can see your fine hand everywhere.” I walked over and hugged him.
“The original was much better.” He sniffed. “Dinner’s in ten minutes.”
When we returned to the hall, I looked at a sheet hiding something at the end. I looked back at Corey, who walked over and swept the sheet away. I gave him a thumbs-up.
“You found the perfect place for Blue Dog #3.”
At the end of the hall, with nothing on the walls leading up to it, the bright kitschy oil hung in solitary splendor, all but winking at us for its cheekiness.
“What about your bedroom, Em? What do you want it to look like?” Corey asked.
From the startled expression on my granddaughter’s face, she’d never considered having her own room in my apartment. “Can I really decorate my own room?”
“May I.”
CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR
Mississippi, week of January 30
No sooner had Emilie and I returned from New York than I ran off to visit my pastors to share updates I’d learned from Charlie and Whip. While I was gone, Pastor Washington had graduated from camping in the tent to living in a small travel trailer. Coupled with a Johnny-on-the-Spot and an outdoor shower, he had more comforts of home.
Pastor Taylor had located the rundown but serviceable trailer languishing behind a demolished building about fifty miles inland and bought it for one hundred dollars, intending to live in it himself. When he towed it back, he remembered Pastor Washington was living in a tent. He dropped the trailer off and returned to his home in a corner of the metal recreation center.
I tooted the horn before I reached the turnout. The pastor was setting up folding chairs in the tent in anticipation of a Sunday service. So far, a handful of his flock had returned, but at least he joked about it.
“Like Tom Bodett, I leave the light on for them.”
In addition to his park project, Alex had posted several queries on various boards on the Internet used to track the displaced. He found half a dozen AME church members. I had three more to report on, including the former coach, who agreed to be down soon. Others were safe but living out of state. No one knew if or when they’d return to their homes. Which, of course, didn’t exist. Living with relatives won out over waiting for one of the oft-promised-but-long-delayed FEMA trailers. We told them about Hope Village and jobs rebuilding the highways. Perhaps it would be enough to encourage more families to return home.
Pastor Taylor climbed out of the Rover and walked over to help set up chairs. I still seemed to make Pastor Washington uncomfortable, although our relationship had improved since we started working on the park. I meddled, but more often got a humorous rather than hostile response. Pastor Washington went into his trailer and emerged with bottles of icy cold lemonade.
“At the very least I can offer something cold to drink.” Pastor Washington motioned us to chairs.
“Right warm for so early in the year,” Pastor Taylor said.
The two pastors compared notes on their congregations, while I struggled to be patient. When they ran out of small talk, I gave them my news. Most of it was bad. More men had been attacked by LeRoy Biggs and J’Marquis Baptiste.
“Danny Ray’s getting more aggressive, but I’m not sure what role Jake Montgomery plays.” I tapped the side of my lemonade bottle with my nails. My newest bad habit and one as annoying as Emilie’s nail biting.
“Knew Biggs and Baptiste was gonna be trouble. Neither has a lick a sense. Started in trouble as early as eight or ten.” Pastor Washington stared into the distance.
“The highway patrol is looking at these as hate crimes, because Hispanics are the victims. For the most part, anyway.” I sat up straight. “They’re bypassing Sheriff Hardy.”
“Sheriff Hardy’s as worthless as tits on a bull. Hate crimes, huh?” Fault lines
deepened across Pastor Washington’s forehead. “Mebbe. Mebbe.”
I stared toward the shack where the Montgomery boy hung out. “We gave them enough evidence to arrest the gang.”
“A lot of crews identified Baptiste and Biggs?” Pastor Taylor knew the answer but wanted me to say it anyway.
The photographic and audio evidence, plus DNA, should be enough to arrest the men. I leaned forward, my elbows on my knees, twisting my lemonade bottle in my hands. I rolled the bottle across my forehead, delighting in the coolness on my overheated skin. “Special Agent Pace will assume control soon.”
“Special Agent Pace? Who’s he?”
“FBI. You’ll recognize him when you meet him. Typical dark suit, tie, and polished shoes. Looks like Howdy Doody channeling Clint Eastwood.”
Both pastors laughed.
“Hate crimes fall under federal jurisdiction.”
Pastor Taylor watched my face. “Do you have some problem with that?”
“I’m torn. Baptiste and Biggs belong in federal detention. They moved from being bullies to being rapists and murderers, in addition to mouthing racial slurs. I wouldn’t be sad to see them go for a long time.”
“Killin’ folks for no reason ’cept their skin color or the language they speak should be enough to get them sent back to prison.” Pastor Taylor glanced sideways at Pastor Washington.
“You’d think with all the racial crap that happened to my people, those two black men would have learned from history.” Pastor Washington levered himself out of his chair, his face darker than ever with anger and frustration. “Guess they don’t think the past has any effect on them.”
“They’re too young to remember how it was. History doesn’t apply to people like them.” Pastor Taylor watched his friend pace in front of us. “All they care about is getting what they want. If people get hurt in the process, they don’t care.”
“Well, I care. I remember stories of what happened. Pops was nothin’ but a kid when he found his daddy’s lynched body two counties over. Must have been about nineteen ten or so.” Pastor Washington caught my shocked expression. “Pops was my granddaddy. He told us kids stories about oppression. Part of the reason why he moved the family north to Chicago.”
“Chicago? You weren’t born here, Roland?” Pastor Taylor asked.
Pastor Washington shook his head. His parents had followed jobs north. His father worked the factories until he got religion and enrolled in the seminary. He became an AME preacher late in life. When crime got too bad in the city, the family returned to Mississippi.
“It’s where my roots are, Miz Davies. I may have been born up north, but I’m a son of the South. I went back north to my daddy’s seminary. After I graduated, I came home for good.”
“I see.”
“I know you think I don’t talk as good as you do. I don’t, but I can speak proper English when the mood suits me. It’s just my flock doesn’t. If I spoke like you, or if I dressed like I had money, I’d be disrespecting them. I can’t do that.” Pastor Washington shrugged. “My daddy knew that. He set a good example. Don’t talk down to your flock, and don’t make fun of them.”
I’d chalked his substandard English up to his background. I changed my mind. He understood more about human nature than I’d given him credit.
“What’s bothering me is the Montgomery boy. I’m not sure what to do about him.” I didn’t want Spot to slip through any more cracks. My gut told me he wasn’t culpable. As Emilie said, he wanted friends.
“I know what you mean. I’ve fussed about Jake for years.” Pastor Taylor walked around the tent. Like Pastor Washington, he seemed too agitated to sit still. “He’s a sheep looking for a herd.”
“Picked the wrong damned one this time, Hodge.”
“I don’t think he had many friends in school. He left in the ninth grade. His momma was happy, because he got a job sweeping floors at the local market. She drank his wages.”
“Lovely.”
“I doubt you’ve run into people like the Montgomerys.” Did Pastor Washington think I grew up in a bubble?
“Don’t bet on it. I’ve met my share of bottom feeders too.”
The Gaffneys, a family poorer than we were, had no idea how important education was. The first five kids, all boys, dropped out at the end of what was then junior high to go to work. The dad was a drunk, and the mother, with seven children and no work skills, lived off welfare. I wondered what had happened to the two Gaffney girls.
“I guess everyone does. So, when do you think the authorities will act?”
“Soon.” Each passing day gave the pack a chance to harm more people. I stood and made ready to leave.
Pastor Taylor stopped me. “If the gang thinks it’s getting away with murder, literally, what’s to stop it from extending its intimidation to Hope Village?”
“And the Sanchez family at the Catholic Church.”
“That their names?” Pastor Washington asked. “Never met them.”
“I’m not surprised. They’re terrified.”
“Of who?” Pastor Washington frowned his now-familiar frown once again.
“Father Alvarado.” I couldn’t say more without breaking my promise.
“How do you know this, Miz Davies? Did they tell you, or did your granddaughter feel something?” Pastor Washington had come around to giving Emilie’s gift the benefit of the doubt.
“Yes.” One word and the expression I was sure was on my face betrayed how deep my anxiety was. “I know Father Alvarado is keeping them against their will.”
“We have laws preventing that, Miz Davies.” Pastor Taylor placed his hand on my shoulder to reassure me.
“Ain’t you jumpin’ from A to B to Z without anythin’ in between? Just because they ain’t friendly and keep to themselves don’t mean they’re bein’ held hostage.” Pastor Washington returned to my side.
I was flanked by my two pastors. “All I can tell you is I’m going to need your help sooner rather than later. Will you be there for them? For me?”
The pastors glanced at each other. One black and one white head nodded.
Pastor Taylor stayed at the tent to talk with Pastor Washington.
“Don’t you worry about me. I can walk home,” he said. “The gang won’t fuss with me.”
“I’ll see Hodge home, Miz Davies. Now you git.”
CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE
Mississippi, week of January 30
Back at the compound, Spot lurked in the distance, watching. What would happen to him when the FBI arrested the gang? Would he be jailed for not preventing the crimes? Would someone take pity on him and get him some help? Would he be turned back into the outlands? Would he continue to stalk Emilie?
We’d been stalked before, Emilie and I, by Dracula. I wasn’t going to let it happen again. I met Emilie outside the girls’ dorm.
“Spot won’t do anything. He just wants to be friends and doesn’t know how. He’s creepy but kinda sweet.”
“We’ll see.” My heart skipped when LeRoy walked over to Spot. Both stared at us from their vantage point near a pile of debris. Did LeRoy know we’d been to the highway patrol? I hoped not. He grabbed the younger boy’s arm and yanked him back behind the shack.
“They’ve been there most of the morning. They were there late yesterday too. They show up around dinnertime.” Alex watched the gang.
I went off in search of Johnny and Whip, who were still out on the highway. I knocked on the bus door and entered when Ducks called out a welcome. He was stretched out in a chair, a book propped in his lap.
“What are you reading?” I sat opposite him.
“Lord of the Flies. It seems appropriate with those feral teens roaming the countryside.” Ducks pulled his long legs in and straightened his spine to sit more upright.
“Yes. Perhaps Lord of the Flies meets Animal Farm. LeRoy Biggs is the ringleader, according to Pastor Washington. By the way, Spot was with him at the edge of the rubble pile a few minutes ago.”
“Right. I saw Spot earlier when Alex and I rode our bikes over to the park to measure the playground area.” Ducks put aside his book. “What’s troubling you?”
“Father Alvarado. Pastor Washington calls him the coldest damned man of the cloth he’s ever seen.”
Ducks walked to the stove and put the teakettle on to boil. “If we’re going to do some serious thinking, we need tea.”
After the water boiled, Ducks filled two mugs and carried them into the seating area. The bus smelled of cleaning solutions, Windex, Earl Grey and the faintest whiff of vanilla pipe tobacco. “Em told me about Marianna not answering the door.”
“She’s worried about the priest. If he gets even a hint I’m plotting against him, he could steal them away in the middle of the night.” I wrapped chilled hands around the mug.
“He’s not going to give up his property without a fight.” Ducks glanced sideways at me. “Do you want to expose him for what he is?”
“I don’t know. Too many ramifications in exposing him. None of them good. We have to protect Mrs. Sanchez, first of all. If we go to the police, they’d probably arrest her for child neglect. She knows what will happen to Marianna.” I stared into my cup. “Do you have anything sweet? I need something sinfully chocolaty right about now.”
Ducks fetched his secret stash of Ghirardelli chocolate, hidden in the drawer next to the knives. I opened a dark square and all but purred.
“We can’t have anyone separating mother and daughter.” While my vivid imagination and strong sense of justice wanted Father Alvarado strung up by his balls and flogged in public, I couldn’t risk the authorities taking Marianna into protective custody.
“You don’t want to turn him over to the church. After the pedophile scandals in several archdioceses, imagine the feeding frenzy the media would have over a priest keeping a woman in virtual slavery so he can molest her teenage daughter.”
Ducks shared my distrust of organized religion.
“Even if he were removed from this parish, the church might shuffle the deck chairs on the Titanic and place him where he could find his next victim. I can’t risk it.” I gave in to my nervousness and roamed around the bus, but not before snagging another dark chocolate square.