by Catie Rhodes
“Life is about taking chances. Sometimes we jump out of choice. Sometimes it’s out of necessity.” Mysti glanced at a slip of paper sitting in her lap. “Your part-time bartending gig, working for those bikers, can’t pay much.”
It didn’t. Last month, after I paid for gas to drive out there and back, it paid the light bill and the propane bill. I imagined I’d have the high speed internet or the satellite TV cut off before too much longer.
“I’m guessing you don’t have too many other options.” Mysti squeezed my shoulder, maybe to let me know she meant no harm.
“You’re right. The best offer I’ve gotten came from Benny Longstreet as his personal assistant.” I grimaced, reliving the rage I felt when he asked me to come work for him, offered with a lewd wink. I knew what he wanted my assistance doing. Not in this lifetime, donkey boy. I’d rather eat boiled raccoon asshole, but I knew I needed paying work. Mysti’s help in turning my ability to communicate with the spirit world into money was my last chance. No matter how much sense it made, I still felt like a charlatan. I never imagined it would come to this.
“See the white billboard up there?” Mysti tapped me and pointed. “Pull off in front of it. Griff wanted us to see it before we came into town.”
The flaking white billboard winked in the distance. I squinted to read the faded black writing covering it but was still too far away. Sensing movement in my peripheral vision, I took my eyes off the road. Out here in North Texas farm country, hitting an animal might mean hitting a horse, a cow, or a deer. The impact could very well kill us.
At first, my mind rejected what I saw. Then a ringing buzzed in my ears. It spread until my whole head hummed with it. My stomach tried to climb out of my body via my throat. I grunted. What I saw was too weird for words.
A family of four stood on the side of the road. Mother, father, and two kids. Each member of the family wore a bloodstained burlap bag over his head. The bags had no eye holes and were tied at the neck. The smallest member of the burlap bag head family wore a cute white dress with sunflowers on it. The dress bore dirt stains with blood dripping from its ruffled hem. She raised her hand to wave at me. Somewhere in another part of my brain a child’s voice screamed in agony and fear. Sweat popped out all over me as I took in her horror and pain.
Mysti half turned to me. “Peri Jean, girl, it’s right up here.” She took one look at the expression on my face and leaned forward so she could see out the driver’s side window. She turned back to me, lines etched into her forehead and her mouth open in horror. She saw it, too. Mysti started to speak but something else caught her attention. Her eyes got even wider.
“Watch out,” she screamed.
I jerked my attention back to the road and yanked the wheel. The bumper of Mysti’s brand new Toyota Camry barely missed a dude riding his tractor in the middle of the fucking road. I jerked the wheel hard, hitting the gravel shoulder and fishtailing. We slid to a stop less than a foot from a barbed wire fence. I sat there gasping, heart jackhammering in my chest.
The farmer dude stopped his tractor in the middle of the road. He shook his fist and yelled, “The hell you doing? Slow down!”
I ignored him, closed my eyes, and took a deep breath. The calm crowded out the fear still racing through me. I opened my eyes again. In front of us was the billboard where Mysti wanted us to stop.
“See?” I turned to her. “Here we are.”
My friend had her hand pressed to her chest, her eyes still wide and spooked. She shook her head at my attempt to lighten the situation.
I turned my attention to the billboard.
“My daughter went missing March 28, 1980. Her name is Susan Lynn Franklin. Susie was born December 18, 1962, has brown hair and eyes, 5’2” and weighs 98 lbs. The State Police said she’s a runaway, but I don’t believe that. If you have any information, please contact Margaret (Meg) Franklin at 304 S Main Street or at the following phone number.”
“This is who your PI friend wants us to look for?” I nudged Mysti.
“You know what I know,” Mysti said. “Griffin Reed has his quirks, and not telling about a case until he can talk to me face to face is one of them.”
Not for the first time, I took note of the way Mysti said “Griffin Reed.” It made me think their relationship consisted of more than professional interest. I held back a smirk and read over the sign again. This girl, Susie Franklin, had been missing for over thirty-five years. Why try to find her after all that time? In spite of my new job jitters, I felt a little spark of curiosity.
The farmer turned his tractor around and parked it across the road from us. Oh, boy. He wants to chew us out. I didn’t take chewings out very graciously.
The guy got off his tractor and hitched up his plain black pants, probably Dickie’s. He waited for an eighteen wheeler to go past. The wind from it ruffled his thick white hair. He crossed the road, the shine from his black work shoes catching the dull sun. I unbuckled my seatbelt and got out of the car, waiting until he got close enough to hear before I spoke.
“I sure am sorry. I thought I saw,” I paused here and searched my mind for an appropriate substitute, “an animal about to dart out on the road. Been driving for a couple of hours, and I’m tired.” Truth was, I was always tired these days. It plagued me like a cold I couldn’t quite shake. If this old dude copped an attitude, I might give him something to remember me by. We stared at each other a few minutes. I tried to keep my expression humble and contrite. Really, I did.
“It’s all right. Anywhere near that curve is always a risk.” He squinted his eyes and stared at me, cocking his head to one side and glancing right at the spot where I saw the burlap head family. “You’re white as a sheet, girl. You sure you’re all right?”
“I’m fine. Shook up is all.” I rubbed my hand over my cheek and found it covered with a clammy layer of sweat.
“Where you coming from?” He asked the question the way a country person does, completely sure of his right to know.
“South of here. Tyler.”
He nodded. “You headed into Nazareth? Or going all the way to Sandal?”
“Nazareth.” Mysti joined us.
The old dude took in Mysti’s handkerchief style skirt of many colors and her fringed shawl. He raised his eyebrows and glanced down at the leather Jesus shoes she wore. He smiled.
“Heard Meggy Franklin hired some folks to find out what happened to her Susie. Y’all them?”
“Sure are. I’m Mysti Whitebyrd, and this is my associate Peri Jean Mace.” Mysti put on a big, toothy smile, but I saw the uncertainty in her coffee colored eyes. She held out her hand to the old man. He took it, gave it a token squeeze, and dropped it like it might contaminate him.
“Lewis DeVoss.” He glanced at Mysti and frowned before turning his gaze on me, the weight of it drifting down to my torn up jeans and worn out cowboy boots. He nodded, almost to himself. “Own this whole stretch ‘o land, both sides of the road.”
“Lotta land.” I didn’t know what else to say. “Cows? Or crops, too?”
“Mostly the cows,” DeVoss said. “Some hay.”
“How’d you know we were here to work the Susie Franklin case?” Mysti asked.
“Nazareth ain’t got more’n eight hundred souls calling it home. We’re all related or we’ve known each other so long we might as well be. Not much stays secret ‘round these parts.” He wiped at his nose. “Besides, I felt bad for poor Meggy Franklin. She’s good folks.”
I grew up in a small town. Maybe not as small as Nazareth, but I knew all about the way secrets don’t stay secrets. This open landscape and the big sky hanging over it seemed like it wouldn’t harbor secrets too happily. Feeling the old man’s hard gaze on me, I glanced back at him and recoiled at the intensity of his stare.
“Give you ladies a piece o’ advice, you don’t mind.” He waited for us to invite him to continue, like country folks do, his arms crossed over his chest.
“Please,” I said.
�
�Don’t stay here in Nazareth too long. And don’t go in no abandoned buildings. We got a dangerous element ‘round here. Outsiders got a way of disappearing.” His speech made, he turned to go.
“Thanks, Mr. DeVoss,” I called after him, throwing a glance at Mysti. She needed to thank him, too, in case we had to talk to him again. I found her frozen, her hands hanging limply at her sides, the way city people get when something scares them. DeVoss half-turned and gave me a little wave and smile. The smile never touched his eyes.
Mysti turned back to the car, but I stepped close and grabbed her arm and shook my head. Keeping my voice low, I said, “Don’t let him know he spooked you. Wait for him to leave.” I elbowed her. “Try not to look so damn scared.”
I might as well have told her to hold her breath and count to six thousand. Everything about Mysti, from her posture to the expression on her face, screamed fear. Can’t win ‘em all.
We stood there in front of the old billboard like it held the answers to the world and watched Lewis DeVoss amble to his tractor. The old man took his time climbing up and turning the thing on. He turned back for one last wave. Then he was gone, and I strolled toward the car. Mysti tried hard not to run, and she almost made it, only jogging the last couple of steps.
“He’s just unhappy a couple of outsiders are poking around,” I told her.
“I know.” She kept her gaze fastened on the road, jaw working. Having seen her like this a few other times, I knew to keep my mouth shut.
I got the car back on the road and drove slowly, hoping not to run into Lewis DeVoss again. We passed an overgrown rest stop with a chain across the driveway. A closed sign and a no trespassing sign hung from the chain. The hair stood up on the back of my neck. The old man’s words came back to me. Don’t go in no abandoned buildings. Outsiders got a way of disappearing.
I was glad to see the green city limits sign for Nazareth, Texas. The population listed on the sign said seven hundred fifty-seven. DeVoss had been close to right.
“Highway 231 goes straight through town.” Mysti regained some of her composure. She set the cellphone on her lap and tapped on its screen. “The motel’s after we pass through.”
We drove through downtown Nazareth. Not much here. The weatherbeaten, faded buildings housed a few antique shops, a dollar store, and a couple of diners. Nobody walked the streets, other than a stray dog so skinny his ribs and hip bones showed. I slowed to let him pass in front of us and was struck by the feeling of being watched. I twisted in my seat, casting my gaze about, until a car came up behind us and I had to start moving again.
“This is a creepy damn place,” Mysti muttered, almost to herself. “Wonder how Griff is faring here.”
Again I heard the lilt in her voice when she spoke his name. Despite my unease, I smiled. The motel, a single row of about ten rooms set a few hundred yards off the road, came up and I pulled into the driveway. This place didn’t look much better than the rest of Nazareth. The bricks needed a good pressure washing, and the asphalt parking lot was buckled and cracked. The rooms would either be so nasty they made our skin crawl or run down but clean. I prayed for the latter and pulled into a parking place.
Here we go, I thought. I had to do the best I could and stuff my worries down deep. Hope it was enough to impress Griffin Reed.
I stood in front of the car and smoked while Mysti checked us in. She emerged from the motel office holding an actual brass key. I dug my wallet out of my bag and opened it.
“No, I told you expenses are on me.” Mysti walked down the single row of rooms until she came to number eight. She used the key to open the door, and the smell of old carpet rolled out to greet us.
“I’ll get our bags.” Maybe Mysti would leave the door open to let the room air out. I lugged our two suitcases into the room and found Mysti kissing—and I mean really kissing—a tall, wiry guy with short, slicked down black hair and one of those sexy stubble beards. His slim cut slacks and suit jacket clashed comically with Mysti’s hippie wear. I tried to back quietly out of the room, but the guy, whom I assumed was Griffin Reed, saw me and pulled away from Mysti.
“You’re Peri Jean?” He held out one long-fingered hand. His fingernails had been buffed to a shine.
“Nice to you meet you, Griffin.” I returned his hard handshake. He grinned. “Sorry to walk in on you guys.” And I was. I missed having someone to kiss. Especially the way Mysti kissed Griffin.
“No worries, and call me Griff. My father was Griffin.” He grabbed Mysti’s suitcase from me and set it on the bed nearest the door. His knowing the right one amused me more than it should have, and I had to bite my cheek not to smile on my way to putting my suitcase on the bed nearest the bathroom. “Not too many places to eat in Nazareth, but I’ll take y’all to an early supper. Give you ten minutes to freshen up. Meet me in the parking lot. We’ll ride together.” Griff gave me another smile and left the room, closing the door quietly behind him.
“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you we were a thing.” Mysti opened her suitcase and grabbed a little plastic zippered bag. “I was sort of afraid you wouldn’t want to come, and I wanted you to do this with me so you could see how satisfying it is to make money with your gift.”
You mean my curse? I already knew not to say those words to Mysti. They pushed her hot button.
“Why on earth would I not want to meet your boyfriend?” I saw an ashtray sitting on the particle board dresser and took out my cigarettes and showed them to Mysti. She nodded and went into the bathroom and turned on the light. I lit up and followed her, pulling myself up to sit on the long sink vanity.
“Because you’re lonely, whether you want to admit it or not.” She glanced up from applying her lip gloss and raised her eyebrows. “Plus, he’s not really my boyfriend. Commitment issues, I think.”
“Too bad. He’s cute.” I winked at her.
“He really is.” She giggled and finished putting on her makeup. “Griff’ll want to work after supper. We might be interviewing people. Make yourself presentable.”
I touched up my makeup and brushed my chin-length hair, staring hard at the black for strands of gray, but didn’t change out of my worn-in jeans and beat up cowboy boots. I thought the look very Hollywood movie star.
We found Griff standing next to a new gray SUV, smoking a cigarillo. He stubbed it out and hurried to open the door for Mysti. Without asking where we wanted to go, he drove us to a diner called Family Home Cooking. The sign out front promised all we could eat fried catfish. The lot was so full we had to circle several times before someone pulled out, and we snagged their spot.
Griff opened the door for Mysti and went around the SUV’s back and pulled out a black canvas messenger bag. We walked into the restaurant, a large, open room lined with booths. Tables created an obstacle course through the middle of the room. Every head in the restaurant turned to stare at us.
Though most of Family Home Cooking’s patrons wore about the same thing I did, Mysti and Griff stood out like a pair of chess pieces on a checker board. A young woman wearing a tight, white t-shirt with Family Home Cooking emblazoned on the front hurried over to us.
“Folks, there’s a booth about to open up over in that corner.” She raised one arm to point, and her shirt pulled up, exposing a fish-belly white roll of fat hanging over her jeans. She left the t-shirt the way it was and went on about her business, leaving us to stand like vultures while the elderly couple occupying the booth she pointed out slowly stood and gathered their belongings and finally sauntered off, the woman staring hard at us as they passed. We slid into the booth even though the other couple’s ketchup smeared plates and half-empty tea glasses still sat on it.
“What y’all want to drink?” A middle-aged woman appeared next to the booth and took out an order pad.
“Do you have beer?” Griff didn’t sound or look to- hopeful.
“No where in Nazareth has beer. Hall County’s dry as a bone.” She delivered the speech in a bored monotone. “We got iced tea,
sweet or unsweet and all kinds of Coke.”
“Water?” I didn’t trust the tea and soft drinks were too sweet for me.
She scribbled on her notepad without answering.
Mysti and Griff ordered unsweet tea.
“Catfish buffet’s all there is. Go over to the steam counter and tell ‘em what you want. Price is $11.99 per person.” She turned to walk away.
“Ma’am?” Griff called after her. She turned back, her mouth still set in the same grim line. “Can we get the table cleaned off?”
She heaved out the kind of sigh only the truly put upon know how to deliver. “I’ll have it done by the time you get back with your plates.”
Turned out, she didn’t and had to rush over and remove the plates and glasses while we stood there holding our food. Griff had to ask her not to take away the drinks she’d brought for us. We ate our food in silence. When we finished, Griff ordered coffee and pulled a laptop and a few files out of his messenger bag.
“As you probably guessed from the billboard, we’re here to look into the disappearance of Susan Franklin.” He pushed a button to power up his laptop and pushed it against the wall so it faced outward. He tapped a few buttons and a grainy newspaper photo of a smiling girl looked out at us.
“Why after so many years?” I stared at the face, knowing she was probably dead, probably a horrible death.
“Let’s let this young lady serve our coffee, and I’ll tell you a little story.”
The girl with the muffin top set out a thermal carafe of coffee. Then she dug in her apron and set down the bill. Rather than leaving, she stood, staring at us expectantly, until Grif picked up the bill, dug in his wallet, and handed her some bills with a smile. “Keep the change.”
The girl’s small mouth dropped open, and she drew in a deep breath. “Thanks a lot, mister.” She made a big show of dragging the little sugar holder to the middle of the table and giving us a toothy smile before she walked off. Griff said nothing until she was out of earshot.
