The Quiet Ones

by Brandon Massey

  “You called before,” Cecil said to Mallory. “I don’t think you got far, from what I recall.”

  “I called to ask about Sanctuary. Ms. Thelma May hung up on me.”

  “Uh-huh.” Cecil shoved his hands in his pockets. He smiled at them, a bashful expression. “Thelma stepped out to grab lunch.”

  “Ratliff reminds me of my family’s hometown,” Ben said, cutting into the conversation. “Goodwater, Alabama. Have you ever heard of it, sir?”

  “Can’t say that I have.” Cecil squinted. “Small town, huh?”

  “Everyone knows everyone. I remember visiting my grandparents there when I was a kid. I broke something in a store and my grandma knew about it before I got home.”

  Cecil laughed. “Oh, that sounds about right. It’s the same here, uh-huh. I’ve lived here almost my whole life, except for a couple years in the Army. I tried Atlanta but it’s too fast-paced there for me.” He smiled. “I’m a country boy at heart.”

  Mallory gritted her teeth at the small talk. Play nice, she told herself. Ben smiled at her, encouraging.

  “I worked at a paper in Gray for a minute after I graduated.” Mallory moved to a nearby wall, gestured toward the pinned articles of news items. “The paper plays a more important role in a small town, I think. You’re entrusted to keep your pulse on the community, to be their voice.” She added, “Their watchdog, too, if necessary.”

  “Uh-huh.” Cecil nodded, as if approving. “Y’all wanna have a seat?” He beckoned toward the chairs. “Get you some coffee? Water?”

  “Water would be great, thank you,” Mallory said. “It’s a scorcher today.”

  “Nothing like a Georgia summer,” Cecil said.

  Mallory and Ben found seats next to each other. Cecil grabbed two bottles of cold water from a mini-fridge in the corner and handed them over. As they twisted the caps and sipped, he perched on the edge of a desk and clasped his slender hands around one knee. Mallory noticed that he wore black wingtips polished to a mirror shine; some of his Army discipline had undoubtedly stuck with him.

  “What’s your interest in our town?” Cecil asked. “Two young folks from Hotlanta dropping in, one of y’all a big-time reporter . . . it’s a mite unusual.”

  The bell above the door chimed, cutting off Mallory’s response. A squat, middle-aged Black woman bustled inside. She wore a navy-blue business suit and black pumps. Her dark hair was styled in a shoulder-length perm so perfect that it was either a wig or she spent a small fortune keeping it maintained; she had on red lipstick, gobs of makeup, and abundant gold jewelry on her wrists, fingers, and around her neck. She carried two big paper bags from Church’s Chicken, the fragrant aroma of fried chicken swirling in her wake.

  “As soon as I step out, you lightin’ up them stinky Newports,” she said with a scowl. “How many times I gotta ask you, Cecil? Smoke outside!”

  Thelma May, Mallory thought. Her stomach tightened.

  “Thelma.” Cecil nodded. “We got some visitors. From Atlanta.”

  Thelma’s scowl deepened, and Mallory’s stomach twisted into a corkscrew. Here we go.

  Thelma bustled past them in a breeze of cheap perfume, wide hips swaying. She dropped the bags of food onto a desk.

  “You’re the one, huh?” Thelma slipped on a pair of glasses and scrutinized Mallory as if examining an ugly insect that had crawled inside through the window. “Calling me prying ‘bout folks. I looked you up, uh-huh. You a big-time nosy gal. No ma’am, not here, this ain’t ‘Lanta.”

  “I think we got off on the wrong foot, ma’am, and I’m sorry,” Mallory said. “I’m not here for a story. I’m here for personal reasons.”

  “Cecil, you better eat ‘fore your food get cold.” Thelma busied herself opening the bags, removing items.

  “My sister lives here in Ratliff,” Mallory said, the words rushing out of her. “She’s living with a family in a place called Sanctuary. I need to find her. Please, if you can help, it would mean so much to me.”

  Cecil’s eyes were kind, but Thelma shoved food into his hands and ushered him away as if he were a child intruding on a grown folks’ discussion. Shrugging, Cecil skulked away and disappeared through a doorway at the rear of the office.

  “How you know she wanna see you?” Thelma asked. “No ma’am. I will not be a party to outsiders meddlin’.”

  “We believe she could be held there against her will,” Ben said.

  “Them folks back there don’t like strangers.” Thelma pointed to the wall emphatically as if the people of which she spoke lived right across the street. “If your sister’s there, it’s ‘cause she wanna be. We mind our business here in Ratliff, always have. Leave her be.”

  “I can’t leave her be,” Mallory said. “We’ve been separated for twenty-five years!”

  In response, Thelma took a bite of her chicken sandwich. She chewed vigorously, swallowed.

  “She’s all I have left,” Mallory said in a softer tone. “Our mother was murdered, that’s how Liz and I got separated in the foster care system. Please, ma’am. Help me find her.”

  “I’m sorry that happened, but you need to put it in God’s hands, child,” Thelma said. Was that fear glinting in her brown eyes? “Excuse me, y’all. I got work to do here.”

  Mallory knotted her hands. She felt as if she would explode with either a scream, or tears. Ben put a steadying hand on her shoulder.

  “Come on, Mal,” he said. “We’ll figure this out another way.”

  “You’ll go back to ‘Lanta if you know what’s best for you,” Thelma said. “Don’t say nobody told you.”

  Mallory glared at her, and Thelma glowered right back, and Mallory knew her earlier impression was correct: the woman was afraid to help them. But why?

  9

  “She’s scared,” Mallory said when they got outside onto the sidewalk. Sunlight seared her eyes, and she edged to the island of shadow cast by the hulking buildings behind them. “She can help us, but she’s afraid, and I’ve no idea where that’s coming from.”

  “Cecil was going to talk to us,” Ben said.

  “Until she banished him to a back room.” Mallory scanned the businesses located along the downtown strip. “It’s time to use some shoe leather.”

  “I saw a barbershop a couple of blocks back,” Ben said. “They’re always reliable sources for local gossip.”

  “Good, that’s a possible source. We can check them out.”

  “Wanna walk or get in the car?” Ben asked.

  “It’s hot as Hades out here. Let’s drive.”

  As they approached Ben’s vehicle, a late-model, black Lincoln Aviator cruised along the road and stopped behind Ben’s SUV. Mallory paused, her fingers on the passenger’s side door handle.

  “Ratliff Police Department” was painted in white text on the Lincoln’s door panels; a police light bar lay across the roof, the lights dark. The windows were tinted such a deep shade that Mallory couldn’t see the vehicle’s occupants.

  Ben came to stand beside her. He crossed his arms over his broad chest and adjusted the glasses on the bridge of his nose.

  “Do you think Thelma called the cops?” he asked.

  “I wouldn’t put it past her,” Mallory said. “But it’s interesting that a small-town cop is driving a brand-new luxury SUV. Where do they get the budget for a high-priced vehicle?”

  The officer who got out of the Lincoln was about six-foot-two, with the wide-shouldered, solid build of a lifelong gym rat, his copper-brown forearms like steel cables. He wore aviator shades and had a square-jawed, clean-shaven face that might have been carved from granite.

  He strolled with the smooth gait of a man who owned everything he surveyed. His black uniform was immaculate, his boots glistened like mirrors, and his badge caught the sunlight like gold and winked.

  He stopped between their two vehicles and hooked his thumbs in his belt loops. He wore black leather driving gloves, the tips cut to expose his thick fingers.

  “Chi
ef Norwood.” He smiled briefly but without warmth, reminding Mallory of an android imitating human behavior. “What brings you to my fine town this afternoon?”

  He had a Southern drawl like everyone else they had met in Ratliff, but it was flattened, as if he’d tried to mask it.

  “I’m Mallory Steele,” she said. “Is it common for the police chief to personally greet out of towners?”

  “I don’t see Fulton County tags too often in my town.” Norwood fingered the brim of his hat. “I’m intrigued, ma’am. What’s your business here?”

  Mallory glanced at Ben, who shot her a concerned look as well. It was clear; this cop wasn’t playing. Being cute or showing attitude would likely get them promptly escorted to the city limits.

  “I’m looking for a place called Sanctuary,” Mallory said. “My sister is there and I’m trying to find her. I haven’t seen her since we were children.”

  Chief Norwood’s expression gave away nothing, his aviator shades concealing his eyes. But he said, “One moment,” and turned on his heel and climbed back in his Lincoln.

  “What do you think he’s doing?” Mallory asked Ben. “You think he’s going to kick us out of town?”

  “It’s strange.” Ben shrugged.

  Mallory looked around, curious whether the residents were rubbernecking, but traffic streamed past them and people walked past as if the chief questioning visitors was a common occurrence. Perhaps it was.

  A couple of minutes later, Chief Norwood returned. He held his smart phone in one leather-gloved hand.

  “May I have your cell phone number, ma’am?” he asked.

  “Why?” she asked.

  “I’m going to send you some directions via text message,” Chief Norwood said. “If that’s all right with you.”

  “Oh,” Mallory said. “Certainly, of course. Thank you so much.”

  The text came through to her iPhone in short order. The residential address, according to Google Maps, was about three miles away, a twelve-minute drive from their current location.

  “You folks have a nice day.” Chief Norwood doffed his hat, got back in his Lincoln, and rolled away down the street.

  Mallory glanced from the departing police vehicle, to Ben. Ben was shaking his head in befuddlement.

  “Was that not the weirdest interaction ever?” she asked. “Who the heck did he call?”

  “Definitely not Thelma May,” Ben said, and she laughed. “Come on, let’s go.”

  10

  The navigator app guided them through Ratliff’s residential area: mostly modest ranch homes built in the 1950s sitting on miniscule lots of sun-scorched grass, the houses outfitted with carports that granted shelter to older vehicles and the occasional Cadillac sedan. A few times, they spotted sprawling homes standing on large plots of land, usually secured behind wrought-iron gates and nestled in the rich bosoms of old trees.

  Soon, they left the town’s residential section and drove past a dilapidated building that Mallory recognized as the old cotton mill. Overgrown weeds throttled the property, rampant kudzu crawling up the building’s brick walls like varicose veins. If she could guess, the mill had been sitting empty for decades.

  Then the app directed them off the paved road and onto a twisty gravel lane marked with a “Dead End” sign. Tall maples flanked the road, casting so much shadow Mallory felt as if they were burrowing deep into the earth.

  “Dead end,” Ben said. “Should we turn around? You think we missed something?”

  “We didn’t miss a thing. Let’s keep going.” She checked her phone’s display. “It should be less than half a mile now.”

  Ben clucked his tongue, but kept driving.

  “I’m still trying to figure out why Chief Norwood gave us directions,” Mallory said. “Considering that Thelma May reacted as if we wanted to ransom her first-born child.”

  “For all we know, he was giving us the dead end that we’re seeing now. Playing a game.”

  “He didn’t seem like the game-playing type.” Mallory looked around, jittery and unable to sit still. “We’re most definitely in the boondocks now.”

  A mixture of excitement and anxiety tingled in her blood. She was excited to possibly see Liz at long last, but worried about the woman her sister might have become. Time and circumstance had altered both their lives in immeasurable ways.

  But they’d shared a childhood, special memories—and tragedies—known only to them. It had to make a difference, she told herself. Liz might have chosen a path for her life that Mallory found inconceivable, but deep in their souls, they still shared a sisterly bond that time could never erase.

  “You have reached your destination,” her phone announced.

  Ahead, the road terminated at a wrought-iron gate. Beyond the gate, she saw more trees, thick shrubbery and abundant weeds, the gravel road winding away into layered shadows.

  Ben nosed the SUV within ten feet of the barricade. A thick steel chain twisted like a snake through the bars, secured with a padlock that looked durable enough to withstand a cannon blast. A dust filmed “Private Property—No Trespassing!” sign, blocky red text on a white background, hung on the gate, too.

  Mallory also noticed a steel mailbox embedded on the right side of the entrance.

  “This is it?” Ben said, a question in his voice.

  Mallory grabbed her backpack and opened her door. Getting out of the air-conditioned vehicle and slipping back into the humid air gave her a brief spell of dizziness. She put her hand against the SUV to steady herself, pushed up her sunglasses and nested them in the thatch of hair above her forehead.

  Let’s do this, she thought.

  The afternoon was quiet. She heard the lazy drone of cicadas and a soft breeze threading through the trees, but little else. The chorus of urban sounds to which she was accustomed—honking car horns, roaring engines, wailing sirens—didn’t exist in these rural environs.

  The hot air smelled of sweet summer flowers and raw earth.

  At the gate, she tugged the padlock, but it was locked.

  “There’s no callbox or buzzer.” Hands on his waist, frowning, Ben stared at the gate as if a means to summon the residents would magically appear.

  Looking around, Mallory noticed a surveillance camera concealed in the leafy boughs of a nearby maple tree, about ten feet above the ground. A faint green light winked on the device.

  “There’s a camera,” Mallory said. “Interesting. Tabitha claimed they were anti-technology.”

  “Only when it suits them, maybe,” Ben said. “If the camera is functional and they’re paying attention, they ought to know they’ve got visitors.”

  “But no one is coming.” Mallory stared at the empty lane beyond the barrier. Dust, stirred by a breeze, swirled and danced along the road like mischievous spirits.

  “We should wait then,” Ben said.

  “I didn’t come this far to wait.” Mallory hiked her backpack over her shoulders and wrapped her fingers around the gate’s cold iron bars. “Give me a boost. I’m climbing over.”

  “Seriously, Mal? We’re trespassing now?”

  “You don’t have to come with me.”

  “Why would you say that?” Ben looked hurt, but stepped forward and knelt beside her, clasping his big hands together to form a makeshift stepladder. She put her sneaker in his cupped palms and lifted her other foot off the ground. He boosted her upward. As she rose toward the spear-shaped finials lining the top of the gate, she wedged her other sneaker between the sharpened points to balance herself, thankful she wore jeans despite the brutal heat; if not, performing this tricky maneuver might have scratched up her thighs something terrible.

  Then she was over and on the other side. She dropped onto the hard gravel, the impact of the landing rattling her shins. She brushed a streak of dirt off the front of her blouse and smiled at Ben through the bars.

  “Your turn,” she said.

  11

  Ever mindful of such things—one of many reasons why Mallor
y loved him—Ben insisted on first parking his SUV on the dusty shoulder of the road. Then he grabbed the iron bars and lumbered like a clumsy bear over the gate, his arms and legs trembling as he hauled himself up and tossed himself over the barrier.

  “Babe, be careful,” Mallory said.

  He landed hard on the ground, lost his footing, and dropped onto his butt, creating a plume of dust and gravel. Redness flushed his cheeks, and he winced.

  “Are you okay?” Hurrying to him, Mallory took his hands and tugged, helping him stand.

  “I’m too old for this.” He groaned, massaged his lower back. Perspiration glistened on his forehead.

  Mallory removed a packet of tissues from her backpack. He accepted a wad of them and mopped his face dry.

  “You’re sweet, but stop fretting over me, Mal.” He rested a hand on her shoulder. “Let’s move on.”

  “Wait.”

  She approached the mailbox. She raised the small metal door at the back of the receptable, the hinges squeaking.

  “You’re checking their mail?” Ben asked.

  “It’s empty, anyway.” She snapped the door shut. “I wanted to see a name on an envelope, verify who lives here.”

  “I’m sure we’ll find out soon enough,” he said.

  Shoulder to shoulder, they walked along the gravel lane. Mallory’s shoes kicked up loose stones. She sucked in her dry lips and tried to ignore the ramifications of trespassing on private property.

  But, of course, in his inimitable way, Ben brought it up. “You ever trespassed to get a story?”

  “You ever trespassed to snap a picture?” she shot back.

  “In my youth?” He shrugged his mountainous shoulders. “I did some things I wouldn’t dream of doing now, sure. Ethics can be flexible when you’re a desperate freelancer and the rent is due.”

  “This is more important than any story I’ve ever done,” Mallory said. “I don’t care about trespassing. I’ve got to find Liz. If she’s here, I need to see her.”

  “Flexible ethics,” Ben said.