Missing Hearts

by Wright, Kenya

  I had set my pen down. “At least now we can anticipate the next time he tries to take a girl.”

  “August is coming up.” Alexander looked back at the road. “What religious holidays do we have?”

  “August 15. The Assumption of Mary. That’s on a Wednesday.”

  “Excuse my ignorance, but what’s that about?”

  Not completely sure myself, I had to pick up my phone and read the screen. “It is the Assumption of Mary into Heaven. It’s the taking up of the Virgin Mary into Heaven at the end of her earthly life. For the Catholics, it is a major feast day.”

  “August 15 could be the day. We have to look into this further.”

  I stood in Vernon’s room and stared at his unfinished painting of that day. Creepy coincidence or not, he was definitely a person of interest.

  I checked my watch.

  Shit. It’s been ten minutes. At the bare minimum, Mom is asking for me.

  I hurried and pulled out a few drawers. Art supplies filled them—paint, brushes, old rags.

  My phone rang.

  I pulled it out and checked the screen.

  Mom. Fuck. I won’t have time to do a thorough search.

  I rushed back to the door, slowly opened it, and snuck out into the hallway.

  We have to get a search warrant and talk to Vernon. I don’t know any way around it.

  If Vernon didn’t do it or help, he knew what was going on.

  Damn it.

  I headed downstairs. No one was in the living room. Even the television had been shut off. Chatter sounded in the dining room. I rushed forward.

  “There she go.” My mother rose from her seat and pointed to the chair next to her. “Come on. We’re waiting for you.”

  Alexander stood on the other side of the empty chair. Curiosity covered his face. I knew he wanted to know exactly what I had found in the room. Due to the grim expression I wore, I was sure he figured it was something.

  “Sorry.” I hurried over to the empty seat and got between my mother and Alexander. They both grabbed my hands.

  “That’s okay, Haven,” Pastor said from the head of the table. “We just wanted to wait for you before we said our prayer.”

  Mrs. Miller spoke up, “Why don’t we let Vernon lead the prayer today.”

  My nerves frazzled.

  A soft voice came from my far right. “Okay, grandma.”

  I checked that direction.

  There, Vernon stood with his head bowed low. “Lord, we gather here today to celebrate your will. . .”

  My heart boomed in my ears, knocking out his words. My hands shivered and I knew that Mom and Alexander had to feel it.

  Jesus. How am I going to get through dinner?

  My stomach balled into knots. Sweat beaded on my forehead.

  Meanwhile, Vernon appeared calm and collected as he said the prayer. “Amen.”

  Everyone joined him. “Amen.”

  I glared at him.

  Vernon opened his eyes and then looked at me. Suddenly the calm on his face disappeared. He didn’t look scared, just more intrigued. I continued to watch him, and he didn’t move his view from me.

  Everyone sat down.

  Vernon joined them.

  But I continued to stand and stare.

  Mom whispered my way, “Haven, is everything okay?”

  “Yes, Mom.” Clearing my throat, I lowered into my seat. “Everything is just fine.”

  Chapter 24

  Passing

  Alexander

  Haven had found something in that room. I could feel the energy radiating from her. She was stressed and anxious to tell me. But now wasn’t the place.

  I wish we could speak through our minds.

  I placed my beige cloth napkin on my lap.

  Fresh flowers filled a crystal vase in the center of the table. All the food lay before us. Luscious smells filled the space. A large country chuck roast floated in mushroom gravy. Butter melted on top of mashed potatoes. Green beans. Macaroni and cheese. There were tons of other platters that I wasn’t sure of the names, but all peeked my interests. A large pitcher of sweet tea sat in the corner.

  Not accustomed to eating with so many people and of such great importance, I watched everyone and followed their actions.

  As I waited for them to pile food on their plates, I took in the seating arrangement. Pastor Miller was at the head of the table on the right of me. His wife was at the head of the table on the left. Haven’s mother and her best friend sat on our side close to Haven. The couple across from me introduced themselves as Deacon Howard and his wife Connie. Another man who remained quiet was near them and looked to be over eighty. Mrs. Mable sat on the other side. Finally, Vernon was positioned close to Pastor Miller and right across from me.

  Pastor Miller passed me a large tray of roast beef. “Agent King, when’s the last time you had a big Sunday dinner in the south?”

  “This is my first time.”

  “Good.” Mrs. Miller clapped her hands. “We’re introducing you to a little bit of our culture.”

  “I’m excited.” I took my time to place a decent size of meat on my plate.

  Mrs. Barron added, “In the Bible Belt, Southern women were often called upon to show hospitality to the clergy.”

  Her bestie Aunt Judy laughed. “In order words, the preacher and his wife got to go from house-to-house every Sunday and have their fill of the best food in town.”

  “That’s why a good preacher always has a big belly.” Pastor Miller patted his stomach. “It means he is serving his congregation well.”

  I handed the tray to Haven. She took it but only placed a small bit of meat on her plate and gave it to her mother. Whatever she had found in the room had taken away her appetite.

  Pastor Miller scooted over a big bowl to me. “Get some of this fried okra right here. Ever had any?”

  “No, sir.”

  Deacon Howard shook his head. “In Georgia, we love our fried okra.”

  I grabbed a spoonful and put some on my plate. Before getting any other food, I took a sample of some of the okra and ate it. The nutty flavor of the vegetable hit my tongue. “This is delicious.”

  “I made it.” Connie beamed. “Dunk them in cornmeal and fried them in a skillet.”

  “I like to bath my okra in buttermilk, egg, and flour before frying mine.” Aunt Judy grinned.

  I cut a slice of my meat and tasted it. The tender, savory roast practically melted in my mouth.

  “Oh no.” Mrs. Miller gestured to the other dishes. “You must get some corn bread too. You need all your strength to catch that crazy person.”

  Munching on fried okra, I nodded and filled my plate with more food. “Thank you, everybody. You all are making me feel so welcome. I may move down there if this is how everyone eats on Sunday.”

  “You haven’t seen anything yet.” Pastor Miller cut into his meat. “Back in the day, my father would hold these summer revivals. They would last for two weeks. Services were morning and night. People would take turns serving lunch and dinner.”

  “Lots of food.” Deacon Thomas whistled. “That’s why I was a chubby kid.”

  Mrs. Barron pointed at him. “You was chubby cause of your mama’s peach cobbler too.”

  Deacon Thomas chuckled. “That may be true.”

  Banter continued around the table. I finished filling my plate. Haven put a little bit of food on hers, but not much. As everyone talked among themselves, I turned to her and whispered, “Are you okay?”

  Leaning my way, she kept her voice down low. “I think it’s him.”

  “Any clear evidence?”

  “I couldn’t get much. All I saw were paintings of the religious days we discussed.”

  I raised my eyebrows. “Where were they?”

  “He painted and hung them on the wall.”

  “Cocky.”

  “Alexander?” Pastor Miller grabbed my attention.

  I turned his way.

  Pastor Miller wiped his
mouth with a napkin. “I can call you Alexander, right?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “What I want to know is how you’re doing with this case?” Pastor Miller wiped his mouth again.

  “Bill.” Mrs. Miller shook her head. “That is not the type of conversation we need at the table.”

  “We’re all thinking it?” Pastor Miller held out his hands. “Is there any persons of interest?”

  “There is.” I nodded. “And that is all I can say at this moment.”

  Deacon Thomas cut his meat. “I just don’t want to walk around with some crazy person sitting right next to me.”

  His wife spoke up, “Basically. . .is he white or black?”

  “I can’t discuss those details at this time.”

  Deacon Thomas jumped back in. “People saying that he might be black and go to our church.”

  “No, Jesus.” Mrs. Mable waved that comment away. “That’s the devil at work.”

  I ate my macaroni and cheese, not wanting to let anything slip.

  Pastor Miller frowned. “Haven, what do you think about this?”

  Haven gave him a sad smile. “Alexander is correct. At this moment, we can’t discuss details of the case. It’s an ongoing investigation.”

  “But how do we protect ourselves?” Aunt Judy asked. “What are the signs of someone like this?”

  I decided to help Haven out. “The causes of psychopathy remain a mystery. We don’t even have a satisfactory answer to the question of whether psychopathy is a product of Mother Nature or a feature of upbringing.”

  “It’s the devil,” Mrs. Mable said. “I don’t need any fancy degree to know that. All I have to do is look into the bible.”

  I attempted to elaborate. “Still, there is—”

  Mrs. Mable pointed at me. “Romans 13:9. You shall not commit adultery. You shall not murder. You shall not steal. You shall not covet.”

  Giving up, I munched on my cornbread.

  Aunt Jackie spoke up, “Well, thank you for that, Mrs. Mabel, but I want to know how to keep my grandbabies safe.”

  “Tell us something, Haven,” Mrs. Barron said. “What could we look out for?”

  “It’s difficult, Mom. Psychopaths are manipulative, aggressive, and impulsive but most won’t show you that side of them. They hide it, which is what makes them so manipulative.”

  “And are you looking into Reverend Thompson?” Pastor Miller asked.

  Haven stuffed her mouth with fried okra.

  I cleared my throat. “We won’t be discussing who is our person of interest at this time.”

  “You need to be looking at Reverend Thompson. Something is wrong with him and his family,” Pastor Miller continued. “They’ve been harassing black people for decades.”

  “Sure have.” Aunt Judy nodded. “Some of us lost our family members to Chester Thompson. His father was an evil man.”

  “Worse than the devil.” Mrs. Barron put her fork down and took a sip of her water.

  Pastor Miller set his napkin down. “Chester Thompson hunted our little girls. Took my sister too.”

  His sister. There was a girl that had the same last name. What was it?

  Pastor Miller continued, “I heard you all went over to Colesville to look into that. What did you find?”

  “Pastor,” Haven smiled. “We can’t talk about it.”

  “But you did look into the first set of Colesville Murders?”

  I eyed Pastor Miller. “First set?”

  “Yes. KKK started taking little black girls on the first Friday of the month in the 70s. They arrested Chester Thompson for six victims, but it was more than that.”

  “And they never stopped.” Deacon Thomas ceased with eating. “Kept on for several more years until the 80s. After a while, our people got tired of it. Next thing you know, little white girls from the KKK families started coming up missing. That changed everything.”

  I quirked my brows. “Who took them?”

  “They never found out, but a note was always left at the parents’ doorsteps.” Mrs. Miller placed her hands on the table. “All the person said was, ‘An eye for an eye.’ Then, little black girls stopped going missing. And the white girls too.”

  “Someone took care of that.” Mrs. Mable shook her head. “The devil was at work those years.”

  “And they never found out who took any of the girls?” I turned back to Pastor Miller. “Do you have any idea?”

  “Not sure, but I know it was some tired black people.”

  I shook my head. “None of this was brought up by Fullbrooke’s local police.”

  “I’m not shocked. They won’t have any of that stuff in the files. Back in the 70s and early 80s, the police were barely involved.” Pastor Miller’s voice grew weak. “I remember having to help my father cut down little girls from trees, so their families wouldn’t have to.”

  Mrs. Miller touched her hand to her chest. “I don’t think we should talk about this anymore.”

  Pastor Miller frowned. “Find this person. Get rid of him before this gets worse.”

  “Yes, sir. I promise.”

  There was so much that I wanted to say. But I didn’t know if it was my place or not. The people of Fullbrooke and Colesville had gone through a lot and been divided over racial violence. What could my words do, but be meaningless? Part of me wanted to apologize. The other was enraged for all they’d experienced.

  Mrs. Mabel sucked her teeth. “And it’s a shame with those Thompsons. Chester started killing all those little girls just to prove to those white people that he wasn’t black.”

  A couple of people laughed.

  O-kay. What? Reverend Thompson and his family are black?

  “Excuse me?” I asked. “What do you mean?”

  “Don’t pay Mrs. Mabel any mind,” Mrs. Barron said.

  “I know what I’m talking about,” Mrs. Mabel continued, “People around here don’t know their history. Older generations know. The Thompsons around here were all the product of Tom Fullbrooke and Fanny. My mama told me that, just like her mama told her. They had the Fullbrooke name, and they changed it because in the end, they considered themselves more Tom’s son than Fanny’s. That’s why they made their last name Tomson. They changed the spelling in the 70s. But Reverend Thompson great great great grandmother was Fanny.”

  The Deacon muttered, “Might be another great in there somewhere,”

  “Don’t matter how many great-grandmas it is.” Mrs. Mabel took a bit of her biscuit. “They black.”

  I leaned back in my chair. “Is that really true?”

  “Yes. Indeed.”

  “Them Thompsons were blacks passing. They got in with the most racist white folks they could fine, to hide.” Mrs. Mabel buttered her biscuit. “Then, they try to marry as white as they can, but sometimes they mixed it up with other ones passing like the Michaelsons. So, they can’t get that black out the blood at all.”

  Mrs. Barron sighed. “Lord Jesus, you’ve got Mrs. Mabel started.”

  “Reverend Thompson married Sheriff Michaelson’s sister, Sweets. That Sweets started that beauty salon and she still secretly press her hair. The Michaelsons can’t get the kink out. It’s in their DNA. Sweets tell everyone it’s because her people Italian and Jewish. She lying.”

  Aunt Jackie raised her hands. “Okay, Mrs. Mabel.”

  “Michaelson’s line is from Tom Fullbrooke’s son Michael who used to mess with this slave girl on his aunt’s plantation. Had tons of babies with her. Made that slave and those kids free but gave them that name to hide.” Mrs. Mabel laughed. “So, now we have Michaelsons and Thompsons breeding together. And they don’t know that they’re not only black but they all types of related. That’s why they evil and crazy.”

  “This is an interesting theory on Sheriff Michaelson.” I made note of everything. “I had no idea Reverend Thompson’s wife was his sister.”

  “Yes, and they are all black.”

  The Deacon chuckled.

  Mrs. Mabel
smirked. “They all black folks, and hate black people so much because they’re scared the blacks going to point them out.”

  Everyone started laughing some more.

  “They are.” Mrs. Mabel ignored the laughter. “Now those Thompsons and Michaelsons are probably a quarter or half black by now. That’s why their men are always sneaking around to the black areas and messing with black women. Deep inside, their souls know who they are, even if their minds have no idea.”

  “Mrs. Mabel, you need to stop with that old theory.” Aunt Judy laughed.

  “It’s not a theory. It’s the truth. People around here don’t even know the town’s history.”

  “Wow.” Haven blinked.

  Mrs. Mabel laughed. “See, Haven. This Alexander over here whiter than Sean. This actually your first white boy. Sean is black.”

  “Mrs. Mabel, that’s enough.” Aunt Judy laughed.

  “I’m going to let you all stay ignorant.” Mrs. Mabel waved them away.

  Vernon whispered to Pastor Miller, slowly rose with his plate, and then left. Haven followed him with her gaze. I hoped he wouldn’t leave the house tonight. But even if he did, Stein, Richards, and several agents were outside waiting to trail him.

  The table’s conversation shifted to a merrier tune. By the end of dinner, several people yelled out hallelujah. Most of the men rushed off to the football game.

  I took off my jacket, rolled up my sleeves, and volunteered to help the women wash the dishes. That brought on a bunch of jokes from Aunt Judy who told me I could come over to her house and investigate any evening I was free. Haven assisted too, but her manner remained somber.

  At an appropriate time, we said our goodbyes and headed to the car.

  As I left, my heart ached.

  Haven is right. This will hurt them all.

  Dinner with them had changed my view of the case. It made me want to protect the church’s congregation more. Sadly, I knew my keeping them safe would be breaking their hearts at the same time.

  They’ll survive this. They’re too good and strong to not.

  Chapter 25

  The Trigger

  Alexander

  Once I drove us away, Haven described the paintings in Vernon’s room and also told me about Mrs. Miller’s story in the hallway.