The Quiet Ones

by Brandon Massey

  Ben wanted Cecil’s trust and saw no point in subterfuge, but he lowered his voice and leaned in closer before he answered. “My lady is spending the weekend at Sanctuary. I’m hanging out in town in the meantime.”

  “That ain’t no goddamn Caribbean resort.” Grimacing, Cecil ground out his cigarette in a tin ashtray. “Your girl is stubborn as the day is long, ain’t she? I could see that about her, remind me of Thelma. You went back there with her?”

  “I wanted to stay, but Father said I’m not family.”

  “Hold on now, hold on a minute.” Cecil shook his head. He tossed back the rest of his liquor in one determined, almost angry gulp. “Shit. You came in here and messed up my buzz, young buck. I was working on somethin’ special here, this is my thing. This is my Friday night spot and you tryin’ to blow me up.”

  “How about another round for you, on me?” Ben asked. He gestured to the bartender.

  “We can’t talk up here,” Cecil said, after accepting the drinks. “Come on.”

  25

  They took a wooden staircase downstairs into The Big House’s cellar, the steps groaning like arthritic joints under Ben’s weight. The basement was a cavernous space, lit with low-wattage bulbs hanging from exposed rafters. Another bar stood against the far wall, this one manned by an elderly woman wearing a purple wig; in the center of the space, Ben saw three card tables set up for business. Four or five stern-faced men sitting in folding chairs hunkered at each table, their attention riveted on their cards as the pungent haze of cigarettes and cigars swirled around them.

  Nothing like a little illegal, high-stakes gambling, Ben thought. Clipped rolls of cash and gold jewelry were heaped in the middle of each table, and he was certain whoever won wouldn’t be paying taxes on the night’s winnings.

  A young man as tall as he was, bald-headed and wide as a freezer, stood on watch at the bottom of the staircase. He wore an Atlanta Falcons jersey, but Ben could see the lump of a handgun on his hip, underneath the jersey. He stepped forward before allowing Ben to stroll into the room, his gaze hot with suspicion.

  “This dude with you?” Staring at Cecil as if Ben weren’t there, the big guy hooked a fat thumb in Ben’s direction.

  “We need a little privacy, Ronnie.” Cecil slipped a ten-dollar bill into the young man’s palm. “He’s all right.”

  Ronnie edged back and allowed Ben to enter. Cecil led him to a far corner of the cellar, which contained a mismatched set of leather wingback chairs and a glass coffee table with a jagged crack running down the center. Setting his liquor and beer can on the table, Cecil eased into a chair and gestured for Ben to sit.

  The leather chair crackled beneath Ben as he sat. He was thankful to get off his feet. The moonshine was already casting its spell on him.

  Music played at a muted volume from an unseen speaker. Ben recognized the song: “Hole in the Wall,” by Mel Waiters. But there was no dancing, foot tapping, or finger popping. This was a den intended for business.

  Crossing his legs, Cecil fired up a fresh Newport and scrutinized Ben through the tendrils of smoke.

  “Word to the wise, you don’t bring up that man’s name in public in this town,” Cecil said. “How’s that sayin’ go? The king’s got a thousand eyes.”

  “Father, you mean?” Ben asked.

  Sipping beer, Cecil answered with a slight nod.

  “What’s his real name?” Ben leaned forward in the chair. “Can we start with that? I feel ridiculous calling him ‘father’ when he’s gotta be younger than I am.”

  “What’re you talking about, young buck? He’s no young man.” Cecil set down his shot glass, frowned at Ben. “You said you went back there today and saw him. You bein’ straight with me?”

  “He’s in a wheelchair, dressed all in black. Big Afro, shades. He was in charge, but I’m telling you that man is no older than forty. Hell, I’m forty-five.”

  “Doesn’t make any sense.” Cecil took a thoughtful draw on his cigarette. “That man’s been around in this town for fifty some years, long as I can remember. But you tellin’ me he’s a young fella, younger than me.”

  “Could it be Father Junior, maybe?” Ben shrugged. “You know how it can be with these isolated groups: the old man passes on and the son takes his place without changing anything, to keep a smooth transition of power, so to speak.”

  “Might explain it.” But Cecil’s frown settled deep into the weathered furrows of his face. He angled his gaze into his shot glass as if the pale liquor contained hidden truths. “But his government name’s Nathaniel Higgins. Supposed to be a psychiatrist, according to the record.”

  “A psychiatrist working out of Ratliff?” Ben asked. “I don’t see how that could fund the lifestyle he’s living back there in Sanctuary.”

  “I still can’t swallow that you got back there to see him.” Cecil’s eyes sparkled with something that looked like admiration. “That was quite a feat, fella. I’ve lived here my entire life and I ain’t never seen him. Hell, I was startin’ to believe he was made up, kinda like the boogeyman.”

  “People in this town are afraid of him, it sounds like,” Ben said, trying to prompt further discussion. He sipped the moonshine, then the beer. His chest felt warm and his head swam from the drinking, but he felt invigorated and at ease, like how in the old days he’d tag along with good reporters, like Mallory. But the thought made him worry about what she was doing at that moment, and he had to turn away his mind to safer territory.

  “Way I like to put it is, the man’s got friends in high places.” Cecil cast a worried gaze around the basement as if suddenly concerned that they might be overheard, though they sat apart from everyone else. “And I ain’t counted as one of them friends, and neither is Thelma. That’s why she didn’t want to say nothin’ to y’all.”

  “Friends in high places? Like whom? People in town?”

  “Men in town.” Cecil punctuated his emphasis on the word by tapping his shot glass against the table. “This is a man thing. This is men’s business.”

  “What kind of business are we talking about?” Ben asked. “I’ve seen Sanctuary with my own eyes. I didn’t expect to be impressed, but it floored me. There’s real money behind it. Whatever he’s doing involves more than running a religious sect or whatever front he’s using.”

  “Man, I gave up this damn fight a long time ago.” Cecil wiped the back of his hand across his lips. “I got a little town paper, that’s all. I ain’t running The Washington Post, man.”

  Ben waited him out. Sipped his drinks slowly. Watched the card action in the middle of the room, yet observed Cecil in his peripheral vision. The man seemed to be at war with his thoughts, alternately gazing into his drinks with a scowl and wiping his hand across his mouth as if to erase whatever he was about to say.

  Finally, Ben turned to him full on. He was about to say, whatever it is, you can trust me, to try to coax him along, when Cecil straightened in his chair like a student caught by the teacher passing notes in class.

  Ben looked over his shoulder. Chief Norwood had entered the basement. He wore civilian clothes: a black muscle shirt that showcased his broad chest and sculpted arms, dark jeans, cowboy boots. He wore a black Stetson and sipped from a highball glass full of ice water.

  Ronnie, the bouncer, stepped aside for the chief with a tight smile. Norwood scanned the room with his cold eyes. His gaze met Ben’s, and Ben felt his stomach curdle.

  Norwood strolled toward them with that slow, cock-like strut of his, as if he owned everything he surveyed.

  “Chat’s over,” Cecil said in a low voice. “The bulldog’s got your scent.”

  Quickly, Ben scribbled his cell phone number on a napkin and slid it across the table to Cecil. “Text me with whatever else you want to say. You can trust me.”

  “Go get your woman and get her the hell out of there, young buck,” Cecil said, but he tucked the napkin into his pocket. “That’s my advice for you, hear me?”

  “Loud and clear.”<
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  “Gentlemen!” Norwood approached their table. His gaze traveled from Cecil, to Ben, and remained on Ben. “You’re takin’ in the local color, eh, Whitfield? Chattin’ up our esteemed muckraker in our own little den of iniquity?”

  “The Big House is highly recommended on Yelp,” Ben said, and Cecil choked on his beer. Ben smiled at his joke.

  Norwood didn’t smile. The man seemed incapable of the expression.

  “The word is you’re lodging at our local motel,” Norwood said.

  “This seriously must be a low-crime town,” Ben said, “for the police chief to care about who’s staying at a motel. I’m hanging out for a couple of days while my lady visits family—thanks for getting us there to Sanctuary, by the way. It’s quite a place, and Father’s a helluva guy.”

  “Watch yourself, fella.” Norwood rested his hand on Ben’s shoulder. His fingers were cold, as if he’d been clasping a ball of ice. The coldness traveled from Ben’s shoulder to his spine, and he had to repress a shudder.

  “You’re on my radar now, Whitfield,” Norwood said. “One wrong move, and I’ll personally escort you out of my town.”

  “I’m not breaking any laws,” Ben said.

  Norwood tipped his glass toward Cecil, then Ben. “Have a nice evenin’, gentlemen.”

  Ben exhaled as Norwood retreated across the cellar and ascended the staircase. He turned to Cecil, about to say, can you believe that, when Cecil rose from the chair.

  “You’re leaving?” Ben asked.

  “Remember what I said, young buck.” Cecil clapped Ben’s arm as he ambled away. He hitched up his pants and shuffled to the staircase.

  Alone, Ben stared into his shot glass, his thoughts simmering.

  “Screw it,” he muttered, and ordered another round.

  26

  Mallory spent all day touring Sanctuary and meeting the compound’s various residents. To her dismay, Tabitha never left her side, her unstated objective to keep Mallory on a short leash in full evidence.

  Despite her limited freedom, Mallory had an interesting encounter.

  In the afternoon, while outdoors in the courtyard, Tabitha took her to an ornately carved gazebo to meet an elderly woman Tabitha introduced as “Nana.” Sitting on a padded bench in the gazebo’s shaded interior, Nana looked as if she were at least ninety years old, which could mean she was Father’s grandmother. She was thin and frail, afflicted with the dowager’s hump in her upper back due to osteoporosis.

  Nana wore a plain blue house dress, not the flowing robes that others wore. A glistening steel walker stood nearby. She had a quilt lying across her lap though it had to be at least eighty degrees in the shade.

  On the other side of the gazebo, a Bride sat, watchful and silent. Nana’s caretaker? That was Mallory’s assumption. None of the young women she’d seen there had idle hands.

  Nana squinted at Mallory when Tabitha introduced her as “family.” Her clouded brown eyes suddenly brightened.

  “Father’s favorite!” Nana said, like a parrot repeating an oft-heard phrase. She had a high-pitched, crackly voice. “Father’s a doctor! Oh, yes, he is! A good doctor!”

  Mallory glanced at Tabitha. The young woman’s face was flushed with embarrassment.

  “Nana is unwell,” Tabitha said. “We aim to keep her comfortable in the meantime.”

  Mallory read between the lines of that comment. Probably, Nana suffered from dementia.

  “Come here, you!” Nana lurched toward Mallory, her gnarled hand like a hawk’s talon. She clutched Mallory’s wrist. Her skin was hot, her grip surprisingly strong. She tugged Mallory toward her and craned her neck to get a closer look. “Y’all favor so much!”

  Mallory’s heart thudded. “To whom are you referring, ma’am?”

  “Swan!” Nana grinned at her; she had a mouthful of gleaming dentures. Her gaze was intense. “Who you think? Y’all sisters, ain’t you? Swan talks about you all the time!”

  She means Liz, Mallory thought. Her chest felt swollen with a dam of fresh tears. “Have you seen Swan recently?”

  “Sure!” Nana cackled. “She did all them pictures in there! But she ain’t paint one of me. I asked her, when you gonna paint me, Swan?”

  “When was the last time you saw Swan?” Mallory asked.

  Nana squinted at her. “Uh-huh, I seen her this mornin’ eatin’ breakfast!”

  Mallory felt Tabitha’s hand on her shoulder. “We should go, Aunt Mallory. Nana needs her rest. She tires easily.”

  “I ain’t tired, heifer!” Nana shouted, veins on her craggy neck standing out in stark relief. “Stop tryin’ tell me how to be!”

  The old woman’s grip on Mallory’s wrist was so tight that Mallory’s hand tingled, the blood circulation restricted from the pressure. Mallory tried to break her hold, but Nana wouldn’t let go.

  “Father would not approve of such language, Nana,” Tabitha said. “You’re a role model for us all, as Father says.”

  Nana’s eyes clouded. As if pressing a button, her grip on Mallory slackened. She pulled back, slumped in her seat. A thin thread of saliva trickled from the side of her mouth.

  The attending Bride came forward in a rustle of fabric and patted Nana’s mouth with a handkerchief.

  Mallory allowed her niece to usher her away, but the strange encounter had only seeded more questions in her mind. Had Nana seen Liz recently, or did her dementia have such a strong hold on her that her sense of time was distorted?

  “I apologize for what Nana said,” Tabitha said, once they were out of the lady’s earshot. “It’s upsetting, I understand, to be given false hope.”

  “Why did she call her Swan?” Mallory asked.

  “That was Father’s name for her,” Tabitha said. “A nickname, I suppose you would call it.”

  Tabitha led her past the other buildings outside the primary mansion. A couple of them were small, simple brick cottages, and she indicated with an off-hand comment that some of the Brides resided in them. Another plain wooden building served as a chapel.

  Mallory paid attention, but she remained alert for Rachel, the Bride who had guided her to her room and scribbled the note warning her to leave. She didn’t see the young woman again until that evening at dinner.

  27

  Before dinner, Tabitha escorted Mallory to her guest suite to give her an opportunity to freshen up and relax. Walking around the compound in the sticky summer heat, wearing those smothering cult clothes, had squeezed a layer of perspiration from Mallory’s pores that coated her skin like glue.

  “Any chance I can get my phone for a little while, check my messages?” Mallory asked before Tabitha left her in the room. Mallory gave her best disarming grin.

  Tabitha didn’t return the smile. “We will return your electronic devices when you leave Sanctuary. Do you wish to leave, Aunt Mallory?”

  “I was only kidding.” Sort of.

  “Very well. I’ll come to fetch you at six o’clock.”

  You do that, girl. I’m going to check out Father’s wing.

  Mallory waited until Tabitha had departed along the corridor before she headed in the opposite direction, toward the long catwalk that led to Father’s quarters. To her surprise, looking ahead, she discovered Father sitting in his wheelchair in front of the open doors. His chair was angled in her direction. Golden light glowed from the wing’s corridor behind him, the brightness surrounding him like a halo.

  Father stared at her from across the distance. His hands were tented in his lap, a contemplative posture. He looked as if he were posing for yet another oil portrait, but his attention was riveted on her.

  “Father, hey,” Mallory said. Quickening her pace, she waved.

  He didn’t return the greeting. With a scowl, as if annoyed that she had noticed him, he rolled backward in his wheelchair, the motor purring. The doors snapped shut in her face.

  “Wait.” She twisted the brass knob; it was locked. She rapped on the wood. “Father? Can we talk, please?”


  There was no answer. The doors remained locked.

  How rude. He stares me down like I’ve got a horn growing out of my forehead and then runs off when I try to talk to him.

  She needed to get inside Father’s wing, somehow. She needed to see what he was hiding in there, how he was living and performing his “counseling.” It might give her a clue about Liz.

  Reluctantly, she returned to the guest suite. Earlier, Tabitha had provided multiple sets of her customary blue outfit. Mallory showered in the guest bath, tried to do something with her hair and settled for brushing it out. Without her own toiletries, she applied a pleasant, sandalwood-scented lotion contained in a glass dispenser on the marble vanity, and then slipped on a fresh uniform. She had her makeup compact in her bag, and though Tabitha and the Brides wore no makeup, Mallory applied blush and lip gloss. She might be forced to dress like them while she was there, but she had to maintain a sliver of independence.

  She sat at the desk, turning over the items from Liz’s old jewelry box. The old family photo, the swan pendant, the other cherished items. As she handled them, she scribbled notes into her steno pad, documenting what she had learned thus far. Usually when researching a story, she would have dictated her observations with her digital recorder, but she needed to preserve the battery in the only electronic device she had on hand at Sanctuary. It might be useful later.

  She wrote:

  Father stated Liz deceased, cause was brain cancer, five years ago. Was she ever taken to a hospital, or was she given care on site?

  Still unsure what role Liz served at Sanctuary. She created paintings of Father but what else did she do?

  Elderly lady called “Nana” appears to be Father’s grandmother. Family tree is sketchy. Nana referred to Liz as “Swan” and spoke of her as if she saw her recently. But timeline seems to be unreliable due to Nana’s dementia/Alzheimer’s illness.

  Given a jewelry box that contained several items valuable to Liz, including family photograph and swan pendant. Liz was here at Sanctuary, of that there is no doubt.