Crown of Thorns (Nick Barrett Charleston series)
Page 13
“Thank you very much for your time,” I said.
“What’s this?” she asked.
“Chocolates,” I answered. I’d picked them up on the way over.
She grinned wide, showing the gaps in her teeth. “Love chocolates. ’Specially the chewy ones, ’cause they last longer. Can’t bite down on ’em, but I can suck on ’em till the chocolate’s gone.”
**
Samuel held my arm as we slowly walked out of the nursing home, down the steps, and along the sidewalk to my Jeep. I held the door open on the passenger side and helped him into the interior.
Charleston was hot again, as it always was in the summer. Inland, however, it was much hotter, and there would be none of the ocean breezes that blessed the peninsula. This was why plantation owners had forsaken their lands during these months to come to town, leaving behind the hell for their slaves. I drove with the air-conditioning off, as I knew he preferred not to have his bones chilled.
Samuel was strangely silent the entire trip. I would glance over at him occasionally, and I saw that his face was troubled. I wondered if I had given him offense. If I had been too aggressive with my questioning of Evelyn. If he thought that had been an abuse of his trust in taking me to her.
When I pulled up to the church, the process was reversed.
I helped Samuel from the Jeep, and led him up the sidewalk and into the church. The smell of jasmine was pleasantly cloying, but Samuel’s face remained troubled.
Finally, at the top of the steps, with his hand on the open door, the cool darkness of the church beyond, Samuel cleared his throat.
“I’ve been trying to decide what I can tell you,” he said. “It’s about this crown of thorns. This is the second time I’ve heard that mentioned in less than a couple of months. I know something about it, but I don’t know that I can pass it on to you in good conscience.”
Etta hurried up to us, but he waved her away. She remained just inside the church. She was a large, wide woman, wrapped in a colorful dress.
“You see, Nick,” Samuel continued, “some people reach out to me because to them it’s like reaching out to God. They want my help getting to our heavenly Father. I tell them they don’t need me—they can pray direct to Jesus himself—but I still hear things as they unburden themselves. Confessions and the like. I wish I could tell you more about the crown of thorns, but I heard it in the confidence given to me as a man of God.”
“I understand,” I said.
“No, you don’t. What I heard was horrible. Such a thing should be done to no man, especially in the name of Jesus. I would like it stopped, but telling you anything else would be a violation of a good man’s trust in me and in my calling.”
Samuel lifted his eyes to mine. He clutched my arm, although he no longer needed support. “I’m going to talk to this man. I’m going to ask him if he’ll tell you himself. It’s the best I can do. If you see him, you’ll learn more.”
Samuel looked past me briefly, staring at nothing. “And if you don’t,” Samuel said, “it means the crown of thorns holds more power over him than the good Lord’s justice.”
Chapter 13
From the church I drove to East Bay, then headed north to the industrial section along the Cooper, where warehouses had been built decades before for the businesses that leeched off the former naval base upriver. I had the canvas top off the Jeep, and the sour smell of decay and swamplands hit me with the humid hot air that flowed into my face.
I turned off Morrison toward the river and crossed the
railroad tracks down a narrow paved road with grass growing between cracks. A quarter mile in, where the road had deteriorated to chunks of asphalt, I drove into a parking lot and stopped in front of a low, flat-roofed building with faded stucco siding. According to the signs, the building held three businesses. I was interested in the one in the center, flanked by an exterminator business on one side and rust-removal specialists on the other.
For protection against the sun, the front windows of the center office were mirrored with the cheap silver lining glued to the inside of the glass. Bubbles showed where the lining had begun to separate.
I stepped inside to the rattle of an ancient air conditioner and tried to breath shallowly against the smell of wet mold that trickled from it with a stream of cold air into the small front office. I was five minutes early for my appointment.
“Be right out,” a voice called from behind a door that was closed to the back office.
I studied my surroundings. A dented metal desk served as the focal point of the room. It held an old rotary-dial phone and a computer monitor as ancient as the air conditioner and the desk. Two chairs with fake-leather cushions served as props in front of the desk; an identical chair sat behind. The walls consisted of fake-wood paneling, with large, framed photos of jazz greats looking down on me. The floor was covered with scuffed and graying linoleum.
I looked again at the monitor, at the small circle in the center of the back of it.
Thirty seconds later, the door opened.
“Nick Barrett?”
I nodded. By her voice, I recognized her as the woman I’d spoken to when I made my appointment.
“Kellie Mixson,” she answered.
“Thanks for making time for me on short notice.”
Given what little I knew about private investigators—the real ones who trace people or gather evidence for divorce cases, not the ones in novels who solve murders—the office and its location were no surprise to me. But Kellie Mixson was not what I had expected in a private investigator. This was not a burly, beer-bellied man in a seersucker suit that showed sweat stains at the armpits. I’d been fooled by my stereotype assumption and the unisex first name. When I’d spoken to her on the phone to ask
for an appointment with Kellie Mixson, I’d assumed she was the secretary and that the name belonged to a man.
“No need for pleasantries,” she said. “I’ve got plenty to do, and I can’t believe you’re here on anything but business. Nobody comes by for any other reason.”
Kellie Mixson wore a tight, sleeveless vest of dark blue cotton. Normally, I don’t think of arms as beautiful. But hers were tanned and well toned and worthy of admiration. As was the rest of her. She was about five years younger than I. I’d begun to notice that
by that relatively young age, for most women, personal habits have begun to override any advantage that genetics and youth give them. It was obvious by her appearance that Kellie’s personal habits included a lot of discipline and that she had invested time at the gym. Her shoulder-length hair was wavy, with blonde streaks in
the brown. What I liked most were her eyes, a hazelnut brown.
I found her appraising my appraisal of her. Her face had an odd beauty; as a Hollywood actress, she could have played a lead but would have been given the roles that required character, not simpering.
“If you’re thinking what most men think, don’t,” she said, moving to her chair behind the desk. “I began as an assistant for my pops, and when a heart attack took him a few years back, I kept on. There are plenty of times it helps to be a woman in this business. And I’m good at what I do, despite the fact that the office I took over reflects his lack of taste and unwillingness to dip into the bank account.”
“Office like this makes it easier to hide the fact you spend plenty on technology.”
That stopped her halfway to the chair.
“The video lens mounted inside the back of your monitor,”
I said, pointing at her desk. “I imagine you’ve got a working computer in your back office with a feed from the video here. I imagine you checked me for visible weapons before leaving your back office. The door looks solid enough to stop an ax. You’ve got an exit from there, in case the client has obviously bad intentions. Right?”
That earned the first smile. “Right on all counts. At least you’re not a nose-picker. I hate nose-pickers, standing around in here so bored they decide to do a search-and-wipe. Then when
“Better to see them pick their noses than march in with a baseball bat.”
She smiled again. It seemed like a rare privilege and I enjoyed it as such. “Yeah. Every once in a while they come in spoiling for a fight. The ones married to clients of divorce cases. I always recognize them because of the video clips that show them cheating on their spouses. That’s when I let them believe I’m the secretary here.”
“Like when I called,” I said.
“Wasn’t hard to fool you, was it? Few guys think a PI is going to be a woman.”
“I’m sorry,” I said. “At least it didn’t take a high-rent office to impress me that you know what you’re doing.”
Her smile faded. “And most guys work a different angle when they try to impress me. Drop salary figures maybe, or let me know they live south of Broad. It did get my attention that you figured out the hidden camera. But if you were really smart, you would have held back, walked out without letting me know that you know about the monitor. Really smart people don’t need to let the world know they’re really smart.”
“And here you said there was no need for pleasantries.”
She pointed at a chair behind me and moved to her chair behind the old desk. “Clock’s ticking.”
I sat. “You found a man named Timothy Larrabee for a client named Zora Starr. I doubt you’ll tell me much more than what I read in the report you gave Zora, but I figured it would be worth a shot to ask you about it.”
“What would you like to know? Not that I intend to answer.”
I had nothing to lose. And, prickly as she was, I liked her way of dealing. I had no place to go, and no hurry to get there. I laid it out for her. “Timothy Larrabee left Charleston as a young boy, drifted into trouble with the law, and seemed to have departed Charleston permanently, keeping a low profile until he joined the Glory Church of the Lamb of Jesus on his return to this area. So how’d Zora know to begin looking for him nearby? And what connects them that she’d be interested to locate him?”
“If you don’t know, then Zora refused to tell you herself. Or you have the report without her knowing it. Timothy Larrabee send you?”
“Her granddaughter gave the file to me.”
“Tiffany. Fifteen, but acts like she’s twenty-five.”
“Angel. Twelve years old,” I said. “A guardian angel for her little sister Maddie. Did I pass?”
As she stared at me, Kellie steepled her fingers beneath her chin and pressed the tops of her short nails into the soft skin beneath her jaw. “Angel gave it to you because . . .”
“This is how it works?” I said. “I answer all your questions but get nothing from you?”
“This is how it works.” No smile. “I keep pumping till the well runs dry. Then I’ll send you on your way. The first thing Pops taught me was that clients deserve confidentiality. Unless they break the law. So do you want to tell me about Zora’s granddaughter? Or you want to end this now and walk out the door?”
“I hate getting pulled over for speeding by a woman cop,” I said, smiling. “Male cop pulls you over, you got an outside chance at just a warning. Woman cop writes the ticket every time. She can’t afford to look weak. Really tough people don’t have to show the world they’re really tough.”
Her features remained expressionless, but I saw a return smile touch her eyes. “Alright then. Angel gave you the files. Tell me in a way that I can believe it’s not a story. And let me warn you, I’ve heard enough stories that you’ll have to be real good to fool me if you’re not telling the truth.”
“Want the short version or long version?”
“You’re more interesting than most people desperate enough to hire a PI from a low-rent district. And I’m not as busy as I’d like the world to believe. I’ll take the long version.” She paused. “Over a late breakfast. I doubt I’ll have anything I can bill you for. But I’m hungry, so I might as well get a free meal out of it.”
**
What Shepherd Isaiah had never realized was that Retha had brains to go with the unexpected courage that she’d found to remain silent as she endured the beating. Shepherd Isaiah couldn’t be blamed for this. Retha hadn’t realized it either. Not until Elder Jeremiah had shut the toolshed door on her and walked out, not until Shepherd Isaiah had whispered through the closed door as he put the lock in place that he wasn’t finished trying to rid her of Satan’s presence in her body.
That’s when she firmly decided she was only going to depend on herself for as long as she lived, not trust anybody but herself. Which, she also decided, might not be long unless she took action. Especially since she had to find a way to get Billy Lee out of the hospital.
Retha heard Shepherd Isaiah’s truck roar down the driveway away from their trailer, and, much to her surprise, assessed her situation with calmness and clarity.
She had little water.
The temperature was rising in the confines of the shed.
And a husband she had decided to leave because he didn’t love her enough to protect her. In her mind, free from Jesus and free from the church and free from Shepherd Isaiah and Elder Mason and Junior, there was nothing left to force her to stay. Certainly not her own parents, who told her again and again to follow Shepherd Isaiah.
Strengthening her decision was the knowledge that Billy Lee needed her to find him once she left the compound.
First, she needed to escape the shed. Retha had no crowbar. No hammer. Nothing to pry the door off the hinges or pop it loose from the lock. She looked around the shed. There was the lawn mower. Some gasoline in a container. Some wrenches lying loose on the dirt. Junior couldn’t be bothered to hang them up.
Retha waited for an idea to hit her. She sure wasn’t going to burn her way out with gasoline, even if she had matches. That left the lawn mower and the wrenches.
Junior was too lazy to cut the lawn. He left that to her. She was the one who took the blade off and went into town to get it sharpened. So her solution came quickly.
Retha lifted the bottom of her shirt and ripped off a swatch of material. She couldn’t work if she couldn’t see. She padded the cloth and wiped blood off her face and forehead, clearing her vision. She was surprised at how little pain she felt. She enjoyed her anger, thinking maybe it was the painkiller she needed.
Once the blood stopped dripping into her eyes, Retha turned the lawn mower on its side. This time, pain did strike her. Quick and savage, as if a snake had snapped its fangs into her side. She’d have to go easy on her ribs as she twisted and turned.
Retha fumbled with the wrenches, moving without haste as she found one to fit the nut on the bottom side of the lawn-mower blade. She braced until the nut was loose, then removed it easily with her fingers.
She was grateful that her fingers were still strong. They were the only part of her body that Junior had left untouched. Including her heart and soul.
The lawn-mower blade popped off easily. Here was the crowbar she needed. She levered it between the door and the hinges and pushed hard. The frame splintered at the hinge screws. If Junior hadn’t been such a lazy carpenter, he would have used deeper screws into a reinforced frame. Retha would have been a prisoner until Elder Jeremiah was tired of beating her. As it was, she broke the door free easily and limped into humidity and sunshine.
Free.
The trailer was locked. Which meant Elder Mason was gone. He never left it unlocked, despite the relative security of the compound where everyone was supposed to obey him instantly. And Junior was probably fishing again. He always did that when he was under stress or afraid.
Retha swung the lawn-mower blade and smashed the window of the door of the trailer. She reached inside and unlocked it.
What she needed from the trailer wouldn’t take her long to collect.
Cash. Retha had always kept some aside, dreaming of the days she’d take Billy Lee to Disney World. Barely over seventy dollars, and she’d been saving s
ince Billy Lee was born. It was in a jar at the bottom of the flour bin. Junior never went into the cooking supplies.
Clothes. Only what she could stuff into Junior’s gym bag. As soon as she could, she’d get herself a new wardrobe. Get rid of the ugly loose stuff that Junior made her wear.
Finally, makeup. Even when all the church had been mad
at her for daring to try a makeover, she’d held on to the free samples that she’d been given at the department store. So deep down, she guessed, this meant she always wanted this day of freedom to arrive.
It had. She’d paid for it with bruises. Blood. Cracked ribs. And felt like it was a bargain.
Retha stepped outside of the trailer. She’d never go back. Elder Jeremiah would have to kill her before she returned.
Retha walked across the yard and disappeared into the brush that led to a swamp trail. Sure, there was a fence around the entire compound, but she’d find a way under it or over it. Billy Lee was waiting to be found.
She needed to put some miles between her and the trailer. And this close, she didn’t trust the road where compound neighbors might see her and take her back to Junior and Elder Mason. Much as she feared the swamps, she feared the road more.
As the shadows of the swamps closed on Retha, she found herself smiling.
**
Kellie Mixson drove an old red BMW. She followed my Jeep to the downtown core of Charleston, into the parking lot right beside the Sweetwater Café. We took a booth that overlooked the street. I was amazed at the type and quantity of food she ordered for breakfast—sausage, eggs, grits, French toast. I could only conclude that her workouts were long and intense.
“What are your fees?” I asked. I’d given this some thought during the drive here.
“Fifteen hundred retainer. Cash. Or I wait until the check clears. It goes against five hundred a day plus expenses. Most files I can clear in three days or less. If it’s less, I return the balance.”
“Wow.”
“Come on,” she said. “Don’t make me wrong about you. I’d already decided you wouldn’t treat me like a little missy or a breakable doll or a bimbo or a challenge to pursue. Otherwise I wouldn’t be here for breakfast.”