by Julie Smith
Landry’s eyes turned to hard, nasty black beans. “Who give you my name?”
“I told you …”
“Shut up, James Allen.” To Skip, she said, “You tell me who give you my name ‘fore I call the po-lice.”
The po-lice were the last people Skip wanted to see. She made her voice as soft as she could. “Nobody. I got it off a list.”
“What list?”
“Look. My daughter’s been missing a week.”
The eyes turned harder still, to glittery glass.
“I don’t know nothin’ about your daughter.” She slammed the door.
Steve said, “I get a feeling people who’ve been involved with Jacomine would just as soon you didn’t bring it up.”
“I liked it better when I was a cop. Warmer welcome. On the other hand, the next address is in Metairie. Tonight I don’t have to worry about jurisdiction. It’s a couple—maybe they have children.”
“Hot dog—the lights are on,” said Steve when they found the house.
A white woman came to the door, looked out through a peephole.
“Mrs. Todd?” Skip repeated the little speech she’d given Landry.
“I’m sorry, my husband’s not in right now—he’s gone out for candles. For when the power goes.”
Skip had a brainstorm. She said, “Sheila’s never been in a hurricane. She’ll be so scared. You see, she got mixed up with this crazy church—”
“Did you say church?”
“Yes, ma’am. Something about a lamb.”
“Get out of here. Get off my property now!”
A car turned into the driveway. A man got out carrying a paper bag. The woman flung open the door. “Paul! They’re from Daddy.”
Without hesitation, he shouted, “Call the police! Now!”
The woman slammed the door shut. Steve whispered, “Let’s get out of here,” but Skip shouted, “We’re not from Jacomine. He’s got our daughter and we’re desperate. We’ll do anything we can to find her.”
“You get away from here.” There was no mistaking the expression on his face: it was terror.
* * *
The good-looking black dude locked Sheila in with Torian. Torian had been alone till then, ushered upstairs when Sheila ran away. She wasn’t even in her own room, she was in Sheila and Adonis’s. She was so scared she’d have called Lise if she’d had a telephone.
Torian ran to her. Though they’d been separated only a few minutes, the two girls hugged. “Sheila, what’s going on? The Rev acted like a maniac. What did I do wrong?”
“I think trusting these people was the only thing we did wrong. Auntie Skip’s always thought he was crazy. But Paulette! She seemed so nice.”
“Oh, so did he! He called me ‘Miss Gernhard.’ He treated me like a real person. I thought he was the greatest man I’d ever known.”
Sheila walked to the window.
“What are you doing?”
“‘Trying to see if there’s a way out. Look, I’ll bet I could get down that drainpipe.”
Torian went over to look. “You’ve got to be kidding. I couldn’t do that in a million years.” She was overcome with the sadness of feeling unequal to the situation.
“‘Too bad. I could do it, but it might not hold my weight.”
She snapped her fingers. “You know what? I’ve got a better idea—why not just open the window and yell? If I’d yelled a few minutes ago, the cops would probably be here now.”
She tugged at the sash. Torian bent to help, but the window didn’t budge.
Sheila said, “Damn. Painted shut.” She turned around and sat on the bed.
“Why didn’t you yell out there?”
“At first I didn’t think of it, and by the time I did, I needed everything to keep breathing. I thought if I did, it would slow me down, and all I wanted was to get away.”
“I wonder if Jacomine and the mustard dude are still downstairs?”
They could hear very little from where they were.
After awhile Paulette brought them some sandwiches and milk. She opened the door and stood there blocking it. “Torian, take this.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“Take it, you little shit, or suffer the consequences.”
Not wanting to find out what she meant, Torian took the tray.
Paulette said, “When I come back that stuff better be gone.”
When she had left, Sheila took a sandwich and held it up—not quite ready to eat, but working up to it. “Look at it this way,” she said. “If they’re feeding us, maybe they’re not planning to kill us.”
“Maybe that stuff’s poisoned.”
Sheila shrugged and ate. When she didn’t keel over, Torian did too.
Paulette came back and took Torian’s arm. “Come with me.”
She locked the door behind her, holding tightly. “Okay, I want you to go to the bathroom.”
Torian didn’t believe what she was hearing. “What?”
The woman shoved her in the right direction. “Get in there and pee. Leave the door open.”
She did the same thing with Sheila, and then she left again.
When she came back, she had some lengths of clothesline with her. “Sheila. Tie Torian’s arms behind her back.”
Sheila had that sullen look she got. “Why should I?”
“Because I’m going to beat the living hell out of you if ya don’t.”
Sheila got up and walked over to Paulette. But instead of taking the clothesline, she kicked Paulette in the shin.
Torian saw instantly that it wasn’t the wisest tactical move—it warned Paulette that Sheila wasn’t going to cooperate, yet it left her undamaged. Paulette lunged forward. It was the first time in her life Torian had seen her friend look frightened.
But Sheila fought. Torian could see her suck in her breath. She doubled up her fist and landed it on Paulette’s arm.
I should do something. What should I do? The lamp! I’ll bash her with the lamp. Torian picked it up and prepared to smash it on Paulette’s head, but the cord was too short. She tugged hard, but the plug wouldn’t come out.
Panicked, she bent down and tried to unplug it. Behind her, she heard a crash, and looked back to see Sheila down on the floor, Paulette straddling her, holding Sheila’s head in her hands. She started to bang it against the floor, and then stopped. Very deliberately, she doubled up her fist and socked Sheila in the jaw.
Sheila’s eyes closed. Her head hit the floor, hard. Torian thought she was almost certainly unconscious.
“Sheila!” she yelled, but her friend didn’t respond.
Paulette did instead. “Torian, get up off that floor.”
Torian noticed that she was still down there, where she’d been trying to get the lamp plug out of the socket so she could unplug it.
Paulette went over to the door and locked it. “Listen, baby, I’m gonna have to tie ya up. I know that scared ya, what I did with Sheila, but I wouldn’t hurt ya for the world. You gon’ be okay, ya know that?”
Torian was frozen with terror. She was still while Paulette tied her hands behind her back and she sat quietly, watching Paulette turn Sheila over and truss her as well. “I had to do that, ya know, girl? You be okay; I swear.”
She was different from the way she’d been a few minutes ago, before she knocked Sheila out. As if she’d calmed down—or simply changed tactics.
She left and came back with some water, which she sponged on Sheila’s face till the girl came around. “Ya gon’ have a sore chin, baby, but ya be all right.”
Sheila said, “Oh, sure. I’m sure I’ll be just fine.”
“You shut up, girl, and do what ya told. Turn around.” She tied a bandanna around Sheila’s mouth, so she couldn’t make much noise, and then she did the same thing to Torian.
“Okay, girls, y’all come on now, one at a time.” She herded them into her van, which had been drawn up close to the house. Torian was first. She saw that Faylice was already there, feet tied
as well. Paulette tied Torian’s feet. Then she left, came back with Sheila, and tied her feet, nearly suffering a nasty kick for her trouble.
“Y’all lie down now, the best way ya can.” When they were jackknifed to her satisfaction, she covered them with blankets. It was raining hard, but still fairly warm— the blankets were smothering. Torian was so unhappy she almost forgot to be scared.
They drove a long time, start-and-stop at first, then fast. Paulette turned the air-conditioning up high, possibly to offset the heat from the blankets. Now it was so cold Torian’s teeth chattered, but it was better than the stifling heat.
Paulette played the radio loud, listening to the country music Torian and Noel thought so trashy. Sometimes she sang along.
Torian tried to hear when the news came on, wondering if her disappearance, or Sheila’s, would be reported.
But why should it? she remembered. I disappeared days ago. And I called Sheila’s house to let them know where she was. Nobody knows we’ve been kidnapped.
She wondered where Adonis was.
“Hurricane Hannah is expected to hit New Orleans at approximately three-thirty a.m.” said the announcer. “The storm is traveling at twelve miles per hour with winds up to eighty miles an hour.”
Torian felt another of the fear leaps that were beginning to seem familiar, but then she thought, What the hell do I care? We’re not even in New Orleans. We couldn’t be.
She didn’t have the least idea where she’d be at three- thirty a.m. Or if she’d be alive.
* * *
Next on Skip’s list was a Gloria Holmes, who lived in the French Quarter. Funny I don’t know her, she thought.
Holmes was on Burgundy Street, near Orleans. She lived in a neat Creole cottage with three units— three units, three doorbells, all unmarked. Skip pressed them all.
A door opened near the gate. A tousled man in shorts and a white undershirt stood there, not speaking, just squinting into the night.
“We’re looking for Gloria Holmes.”
“Shit, it’s raining,” he said, and closed the door.
Skip shrugged and kept pressing the other two bells, knowing that, because passing drunks love to punch butt tons, French Quarter residents often don’t answer unless they’re expecting someone.
Finally a female voice called, “What?”
“We’re looking for Gloria Holmes. It’s an emergency.”
“St. Ann.” Loud and irritated. A door slammed.
Skip was about to lean on the buzzer again, but Steve said, “The deli?”
“Oh, hey. Maybe so.” He gave her one of his pleased- but-hiding-it looks.
She slipped her hand in his as they walked the two blocks to the deli, scurrying in the rain. “You’re semi- useful, you know that?”
“Don’t get all carried away.”
The St. Ann Deli was known for its bountiful, frequently quite decent food, and in Skip’s experience, snail-like service. Whether Gloria was a slow server, slow cook, or patient customer remained to be seen. It even occurred to Skip that maybe her roommate said “St. Ann” whenever Gloria was missing, on the theory that she was probably sitting there waiting for her order.
The woman behind the counter had some kind of tooth around her neck and about eight ornaments in each ear, nicely displayed with the help of a buzz haircut. She wore a faded lavender T-shirt that announced she was gay and proud, and that barely covered a pair of free-swinging breasts too large to be wrestled into a bra. Skip knew her by sight—they always exchanged greetings when they ran into each other.
“Are you Gloria Holmes?”
“Uh-huh. You live up the block, don’t you?”
“On St. Philip. I’m Skip Langdon.”
“What can I do you for?” Her voice was hearty, said she was ready for anything.
Skip liked the setup. They were in a public place so Gloria couldn’t slam any doors on her.
“We’ve got a little problem we hope you can help us with. Our daughter has disappeared and …”
“Oh. You’re from P-FLAG. Sure. Be with you in a minute.” She disappeared into the kitchen.
Steve turned to Skip: “We’re from pea flag?”
“Beats me. All I know is, she hasn’t threatened to call the po-lice.”
Gloria came back with someone’s corn chowder. When she had served it, she said, “You can’t be Susan’s parents—you don’t look any older than she is.”
“Listen, please talk to us for a minute. We’re desperate.”
Gloria nodded, all sympathy. “I know. It’s really hard when you first find out—”
“We think she’s mixed up with a man named Jacomine.”
“Oh shit. You’re not from P-FLAG.”
Steve said, “What’s pea flag?” making Skip impatient again; she hated getting off-track.
“Parents and Friends of Lesbians and Gays. Too bad. If your kid was a dyke, I’d know what to do. But the Blood of the Lamb? That’s something else again. Kidnap her, deprogram her, and move to another country. That’s my advice.” She strode back into the kitchen, clearly enjoying the way her body moved.
Besides the T-shirt, she wore a pair of baggy khaki shorts and lace-up boots with heavy socks. Her hips probably wouldn’t fit into a smallish chair, and her butt jiggled. Her leg hair would have flapped in the breeze if there’d been one.
“Pinch me,” Skip said. “She didn’t haul out the garlic and crucifixes.”
“Probably sneaking out the back right now.”
But she came back with a burger and a plate of red beans and rice, served them, and rejoined the ersatz parents with a grin.
Steve said, “We really have to thank you. You’re the only person we’ve talked to who hasn’t threatened to call the police.”
“Oh, honestly. They’ve got this ex-members’ support group that’s more like a cult than the Jacomeanies. They think every stranger’s a spy for the church. Does paranoia breed paranoia, or what? Of course what do I know? I was never really in it myself—I just went with my mom sometimes. See, my dad was a butt about me coming out, but Mom was great. Went to P-FLAG, and got right with the program. So when she joined this liberal, progressive new church, I tried to support her.
“She said the reason it attracted her was they had lots of gays—the Rev talked to her about me being gay and— you know—was cool about it. I mean, kind of aggressively cool. Well, Mom was probably vulnerable to anything that might help her deal with it—but anyway, she didn’t last long either. I mean, it was pretty obvious it was a cult.”
“What tipped your mom?”
“Oh, the usual, I guess. They wanted too much time and too much money. And I guess it got kind of old having to call Jacomine ‘Daddy.’ Oh, yeah, and she never did buy the healings. Simple laying on of hands, yes, no problem, she said. But when he pulled tumors out of people, it kind of compromised credibility.” She shrugged. “The truth was, neither of us ever got deep into it. It was no more than an episode.”
“We think they’ve got our daughter someplace. Do you know of any—I don’t know—runaway programs they have? Anything like that?”
“My mom might. Want me to give you her number?”
“Please.”
Gloria scribbled something. “Her name’s different from mine. Sauter. Sylvia Sauter. You can call her now if you like. She stays up all night—her clock’s backwards or something.”
“Thanks,” Skip said, though at this point she hadn’t the least concern about Mrs. Sauter’s sleep habits.
She and Steve went to her house to make the call. As advertised, Mrs. Sauter seemed ready and happy to talk. She said they hadn’t disturbed her, she was just ironing. “Errol Jacomine. A bad man. A very bad man.”
“Why do you say so, Mrs. Sauter?”
“He got people’s money. Old people’s. Mine—he got some of mine, in fact. With his phony healing and his seductions…”
“You know about that?”
“Oh, yes. Yes. It happened to fri
ends of mine.”
“Listen, do you have any idea where my daughter might be? Is there some kind of quasi-legal shelter they run?”
“You know it’s strange you brought it up. My friend Paulette … and the other thing, too.”
“Could you say all that slowly?”
“Well, they used to list their projects every Sunday at church, and you were supposed to pick the ones you wanted to contribute to. So I picked several, including this sort of little shelter they had—I mean, basically it was just one woman—Paulette Thibodeaux—and I took her some food one day, for the kids.”
“Why is it strange that I’d mention her?”
“Oh. Because there were rumors.”
“Rumors?”
“Listen, I really don’t want to be that kind of person. Would you let me off the hook, by any chance?”
Since you ask so nicely—and since I don’t care anyway. “Sure. Can you remember where she lives?”
Mrs. Sauter gave her the address.
“Okay, Steve. Commando raid. Let’s look sharp.”
“What’s our plan?”
“Good question. Sheila’s been gone twenty-four hours. We could get the police in on this. I could call in a favor or two.” She thought a minute. “You know what? I don’t see any way around it. Forget the commando raid.”
She called a friend in Juvenile to meet her there.
The place was on the other side of town, near Audubon Park, but they were there in about twelve minutes. The block was dark, including the Thibodeaux house. It was raining harder.
The officer rang the doorbell—getting no answer. The three of them looked around the house, then in the garage. No car. No one home.
They all left.
In the officer’s absence, Steve said, “What now?”
“Now the commando raid.”
“Another B and E? Two in one night?”
“You up to it?”
They broke a window in the back and went in. In one bedroom, they found a pair of earrings lying on the bureau—Sheila’s turquoise studs.
Or rather, earrings like hers—inexpensive, mass-produced turquoise studs of a type that could be purchased at any store in America that catered to teenagers.
