The Quiet Ones

by Brandon Massey

  “Back to that, yeah.” Ben shook his head. “I don’t know if that’s a good idea, Mal. I suspect he’s one of Father’s ‘friends in high places.’ Norwood sure didn’t want me talking to Cecil. He literally put the Vulcan nerve pinch on me last night.”

  “I still want to put him on the hot seat and gauge his response.” Mallory swiped her phone’s screen. “That’ll tell us for sure.”

  Ben expelled a hiss between clenched teeth. Mallory glanced up from her phone.

  “All right, what is it?” she asked. “I know that sound.”

  “I wish you would trust my instincts sometimes.”

  “Who said I don’t trust your instincts? You did great, Ben, and I appreciate that, but now, I’ve got to do this a certain way.”

  “Gee, it’s so nice to feel needed.”

  “Like I’ve said before, sarcasm really doesn’t suit you.” She covered his hand with hers, her touch warm and soft. Her gaze was steady. “I need you here with me, baby. Don’t doubt that for a second. But please, let me lead on this. This is my family we’re talking about here.”

  “You’re my family,” Ben said.

  “You’re sweet.” She squeezed his hand, then returned her attention to her iPhone.

  He tried to let it go, but her dismissal of his opinion still rankled him. He reminded himself it had less to do with him and more to do with her unrelenting nature to follow through on things exactly the way she intended, without detour. He thought that sort of single-mindedness could get her in trouble, but as she was prone to remind him, she could take care of herself.

  He drained his coffee mug. “Ready to go then? We’ll see if Norwood is working on Saturdays.”

  37

  Mallory fired off her text message request to her private investigator friend while Ben drove back into town. The detective remembered that he owed her a favor and promised to run the tags as soon as he could. Within the next couple of hours, Mallory hoped.

  The police headquarters was located on Ratliff Road, the town’s main drag, in a nondescript, one-story brick building next to the equally plain-looking Ratliff City Hall. Chief Norwood’s brand-new Lincoln Aviator was parked in front. The black SUV sparkled in the sunshine.

  Mallory glanced at Ben as he nosed his truck into the visitor’s parking slot.

  “If Norwood’s participating in Father’s business, like you think he is,” she said, “that explains how the Ratliff PD can afford a luxury SUV for the chief.”

  “It would.” A scowl had settled deep into Ben’s face as if baked in there like a pie crust; to Mallory, he looked salty that they were coming to the police department at all. She knew he assumed that she doubted his instincts, but from her perspective, that wasn’t the issue. She simply had a way that she needed to do things: she had to cross all her “t’s” and dot her “i’s.” It wasn’t about him. It was about her process. If he didn’t like it, he could go back to Atlanta—she’d almost told him that, too, but had stopped herself before the words escaped her lips. It would have been mean and hurtful and he didn’t deserve to be treated that way.

  But she needed him to follow her lead.

  “I’ll do the talking,” she said. “We already know he doesn’t like you.”

  “Want me to wait in the car?” he asked.

  She gave him a pointed look, and he shrugged and opened his door. Together, they went inside.

  The entrance led into a small lobby with banks of yellow lights, white linoleum flooring, beige walls, a couple of plastic chairs, and a chest-high front desk, currently vacant. Behind the desk, a frosted glass partition framed a wooden door that led to the police station proper.

  A striking young Black woman swept the floor in the lobby. She wore a traditional housekeeper’s uniform and white sneakers, her dark hair pulled back in a bun. When Mallory and Ben walked in, the woman looked up and focused on Ben, her lips parted in a small “o” of surprise. Mallory noticed Ben’s spine went rigid, as if he’d seen a ghost.

  “Do you two know each other?” Mallory asked.

  “I, ah, saw her working at the motel in town, too.” Redness colored his cheeks. “Hey, Leah.”

  The woman, Leah, didn’t speak, and she virtually ignored Mallory. Ben’s earlier comment about encountering women in town who behaved like Sanctuary Brides surfaced in Mallory’s thoughts. Leah would have been right at home scrubbing floors in Father’s mansion.

  I’ve got to get to the root of this, she thought. This is ridiculous.

  “Is Chief Norwood here?” Mallory asked Leah, not really expecting a response.

  Leah paused, frowning. She leaned her broom against the wall and rounded the front desk, disappearing through the door.

  “Beautiful young lady,” Mallory said.

  “Who?” Ben studied the tips of his shoes.

  “The housekeeper, obviously. Leah. Quite a looker.”

  “Oh, right, yeah.” He bobbed his head.

  “You seem embarrassed,” she said.

  “It was a little jarring, that’s all, seeing the same person in two different places.” He chuckled, but she heard a ripple of nervousness in his laughter.

  “Possibly, she’s contracted out by a cleaning company that services several businesses in town.”

  “That’s probably the case, sure.”

  Chief Norwood emerged from the back area, Leah following on his heels like a bashful child. The young woman resumed her sweeping in silence. Norwood carried a black coffee mug that had “HNIC” printed on the side in big white letters. Please.

  Standing behind the desk, Chief Norwood cast a stern glance at Ben and then directed his attention to Mallory. “You’re back.”

  “I’m like the common cold,” Mallory said. “You can never get rid of me.”

  Chief Norwood didn’t laugh. “As you can see, ma’am, I’m short-staffed this Saturday. Real busy writin’ up reports. I don’t have time for any foolishness.”

  “I’m requesting for you to get a search warrant to look for my sister at Sanctuary, please, Chief,” Mallory said. “I’ve good reason to suspect Father is holding her there against her will.”

  If the chief was surprised by her request, he didn’t let it show. His face a blank slate, he sipped his coffee.

  “That’s an interestin’ accusation, ma’am,” he said. “What evidence do you have of this unlawful imprisonment?”

  “I don’t have anything I can show you right now,” she said. “But I swear to you, if you go to Sanctuary and start opening those locked doors, you’ll find my sister. She’s there.”

  “Again,” Chief Norwood said. “What evidence do you have?”

  “She left me a drawing of a butterfly, something only she would have done. The symbol has special significance between us.”

  “A drawing of a butterfly, cute,” Chief Norwood said. “Do you have this special drawing in your possession, ma’am?”

  “Father ripped it up because he knew it was proof.” Next to her, Ben shifted on his feet. She recognized how flimsy her tale sounded even to her own ears.

  “Let’s call the governor and bring in the National Guard.” Chief Norwood slapped the desk with the flat of his hand. “Somebody you say is missin’ left you a drawing of a butterfly and Father tore it up!”

  The chief threw back his head and laughed, a harsh sound that reminded her of a dog’s bark. Her stomach tightened into a tight ball.

  “This isn’t a joke, man,” Ben said.

  Chief Norwood wiped his eyes, his laughter subsiding. “I’m not joking either when I say this. I’m pullin’ in my welcome mat, folks. I’ve been getting complaints.”

  “Complaints about us?” Mallory asked.

  “First your boyfriend here, and now you,” Chief Norwood said. “You’re hassling peaceful, law-abiding citizens and I won’t tolerate it in my town.”

  “Hassling?” Mallory asked. “Are you serious?”

  Chief Norwood gestured toward the door with his coffee mug. “Consider your
selves warned, friends. I’m a patient man, but I’ve drawn my line in the sand. Don’t you dare cross it.”

  “It’s Father, isn’t it?” Mallory said. “You’re on his payroll. How’s that luxury SUV riding?”

  Chief Norwood’s nostrils flared. “Get the hell out of my office, ma’am.”

  Outside, Ben said, “You really charmed him, babe. Quite the touch.”

  “I pushed his buttons on purpose.” She got back in the truck. “He reacted the way I thought he would. Like they say, a hit dog will holler.”

  “But he’s going to be on our butts now,” Ben said. “We’ll have to watch our step.”

  “We can contact the state police.” Mallory checked her phone for messages, found none yet. “Maybe the FBI.”

  “I don’t think we’re at that point, Mal.” Ben punched the ignition. “You haven’t yet identified your sister. You don’t have photos or physical evidence that she’s being held prisoner. The state cops or the feds are going to contact local police—our man, Norwood—and they’ll have a good belly laugh at your expense.”

  Mallory’s jaw clenched. She knew he was right, and she hated it. She wanted to send the cavalry into Sanctuary, fling open every door and search every square foot of that property, because she knew in her bones and in her blood that Liz was there, praying for her help.

  “We need to build a stronger case, then,” she said.

  “Airtight.” Ben rested his big hands on the steering wheel. “Last night, Cecil gave me a lead. An address I’ve yet to visit.”

  “We’ve got nothing to lose,” Mallory said. “Let’s check it out.”

  38

  The address Cecil had given Ben was located on the outskirts of town. They took a series of winding, barely trafficked two-lane roads lined by forest on either side, houses nestled deep within the woods like cottages in a Brothers Grimm fairy tale.

  As they traveled, Mallory noticed her iPhone had dropped down to its last signal bar. By the time Ben finally pulled to a stop at the terminus of a road marked with a “Dead End” sign, all the bars had vanished.

  Mallory stared through the windshield. Weeds as high as her head flanked the edge of the road, framing a dirt driveway blocked by a wide, rusted gate.

  A sign hung on the gate:

  Warning!

  No Trespassing

  Registered Gun Owner

  The image of a rifle was displayed underneath the text. A heavy, rust-spotted steel chain secured the gate.

  Beyond the entrance, she saw, at least a hundred yards away, a ranch house with boarded-up windows and doors, a sagging porch, and a collapsed roof that looked as if a giant had crushed it with a boot. Weeds sprouted from cracks in the roofline like fringes of disheveled hair, and kudzu and wisteria vines webbed the walls.

  “The place looks abandoned,” Mallory said.

  “This is the address Cecil gave me.” Ben gazed through the window, squinting despite his glasses.

  “Did Cecil tell you why this address was important?” Mallory asked. “Who supposedly lives here?”

  “Someone named Martha, but he didn’t tell me anything about her. I didn’t get any useful results about the property owner when I entered the address on Google.”

  Mallory climbed out. She approached the driveway, pebbles crunching underneath her sneakers.

  At the gate, she grasped the padlock. It was old and heavy.

  Ben joined her at the gate. “I hope you aren’t planning on a replay of that reckless act you pulled at Sanctuary.”

  “You mean trespassing? I don’t think there’s any point.”

  “The property is clearly derelict,” Ben said. “The driveway is overgrown with weeds.”

  “It looks like Cecil lied to you, babe.”

  “Why would he do that?” He looked offended by her suggestion.

  “Umm, to get you off his back? To send you on a wild goose chase? In my line of work, it happens all the time when people don’t want to cooperate.”

  “He acted as if he was helping me out.” Ben shoved his hands in his pockets.

  “Happens to the best of us.” She let the padlock drop against the gate. “Sorry.”

  “I can’t accept that, Mal. He wouldn’t have lied to me.”

  “Now who’s being stubborn?” she asked.

  Ben glared at her. She touched his arm to soften the blow of her words.

  “Come on, let’s head back into town,” she said. “I need to get bars on my phone again.”

  Ben spun the truck around and drove back the way they had come. As her cell picked up service once more, the phone buzzed, indicating she’d received several text messages.

  “Finally, some real leads,” she said. “My guy Sullivan got hits on the vehicle tags. Both are based in Ratliff. The tag on the Mercedes is registered to a Dr. Daniel Faustin.”

  “Another doctor, huh?” Ben said.

  “The transport van is registered to a business. Want to know the name of it?”

  “Father Knows Best, Incorporated?” Ben snickered.

  “Maid4U, LLC,” Mallory said.

  “Maid4U?” Ben shook his head. “They’re running a cleaning service?”

  “It’s got to be a front. I suspect it’s cover for their trafficking activities. We should check out this one first.”

  “The business address isn’t the Sanctuary property?” Ben asked.

  “It’s a different location, on Riverside Lane. But Tabitha and Nimrod were driving that van themselves, like I said earlier. We need to check it out.”

  She gave Ben the address and he added the information to his navigation app. The destination was about fifteen minutes away, on the other side of town.

  “We’re taking in all the wonderful sights of Ratliff, that’s for sure,” she said.

  “So much to see and do isn’t there?” Ben said. “Once we’re all done, we should plan a romantic getaway here.”

  “We’ll find a rental on Airbnb,” she said. “Somewhere nice and cozy.”

  They laughed at their silliness. It was, Mallory realized, a subconscious ploy to push back their growing sense of anxiety at the depth of their predicament. The police threatening to “pull in the welcome mat,” and probably run them out of town. Dead end leads, or promising leads that had as much chance of helping them as they did of leading to nothing at all. Meanwhile, her sister remained tantalizingly out of reach.

  They soon found themselves in Ratliff’s high-end neighborhood: an area of expansive, well-tended lots with long driveways leading to stately residences. One of those properties ahead had a wooden sign posted on the edge of the road: Milton Grey, Esquire.

  “This is it?” she asked. “Some country lawyer?”

  “The plot thickens,” Ben said.

  He turned onto the driveway.

  39

  The horseshoe-shaped drive ended at the front of a palatial brick Colonial that would have fit perfectly in a gentrified neighborhood in Atlanta—Inman Park, perhaps. The house sat on a broad sweep of grass as perfectly trimmed as the putting greens on a golf course, accompanied by meticulously tended flowers and plants. A detached three-car garage stood nearby; a white Audi sedan parked in front of the garage doors alongside a black Ford F-150.

  Mallory noticed a flagstone walkway; it twisted around the side of the residence and dwindled out of sight at the rear.

  “What do you make of this?” Ben steered to the edge of the driveway’s final curve. “Looks to me like our man hired a lawyer to create a shell company.”

  “A bit disingenuous for someone who counsels his flock to shun the secular world.”

  Before Ben parked, Mallory Googled “Milton Grey, Attorney” on her iPhone and received a page of search results.

  “He’s got a basic business website,” she said. “Looks like he specializes in estate planning and tax law.”

  Ben nodded. “Let’s go shake him down.”

  At the front porch, Mallory rang the doorbell. The ensuing string of chimes
sounded like a symphony.

  No one came to the door. The exterior door featured panes of stained glass embedded in the upper panels. Mallory hooded her eyes with her hands and pressed her face against the glass, but she didn’t see any shapes moving around inside the house.

  “Two vehicles are parked out front,” she said. “Someone’s gotta be here.”

  “They might think we’re Jehovah’s Witnesses,” Ben said. “They’ve gone into HBH mode—Home but Hiding.”

  Mallory stepped off the porch and onto the walkway curving around the house. She hurried along, her backpack bouncing on her shoulders.

  The footpath led to a wrought-iron gate; the iron fence enclosed the entire yard, an area covering well over an acre. She thumbed the latch on the gate and the door swung open.

  “Careful now, Mal,” Ben said, close behind.

  “Stop fretting. I didn’t see any signs warning against trespassing, did you?”

  He grumbled under his breath. She strode into the backyard, following a garden path that branched on the right to an enormous wooden deck; the left branch led to an area featuring a large in-ground swimming pool, hot tub, and gazebo. More lushly detailed landscaping accented the outdoor space.

  Two young Black women wearing white string bikinis, like twins, lounged in the cool shade of a big yellow umbrella on the pool’s travertine stone patio. At Mallory’s arrival, the women turned, almost as one, and sat up in their beach chairs.

  They could have been swimsuit models, their bodies so well-sculpted, the women had either won the genetics lottery or been worked on by a skilled plastic surgeon. Each of them had long manes of lustrous dark hair that Mallory figured had to be weaves. Despite their physical beauty, the women had that deer-caught-in-headlights look that Mallory had seen in the Brides at Sanctuary.

  “Hi, ladies, I’m looking for the lawyer, Mr. Grey.” Mallory flashed her media badge like a police officer. “Is he here? No one answered the door.”

  The women looked at each other. Although silent, an unspoken language seemed to pass between them, indecipherable to Mallory.

  The bikinis left the women’s throats exposed. Mallory saw, faintly, the same scars she had seen on Rachel.