I’d promised Coleman I wouldn’t go to the church compound. And I didn’t intend to. Bijou’s property, Hemlock Manor, was my destination. It stood to reason that Farley, if he was behind Jaytee’s abduction, wouldn’t hold him at the church compound. Too obvious. Harold’s fake invitation to Hemlock Manor would give him the perfect opportunity to imprison Jaytee there. As I knew from searching the premises for Roscoe, there were plenty of places to keep someone captive. Bijou’s complicity in all of this could be determined later.
A rescue attempt wasn’t my plan. I would stay hidden and photograph Jaytee, if he was there. I would gather the evidence Coleman needed for a search warrant.
The person I had to be careful of was Mason Britt. Bijou’s foreman acted like a true believer of the propaganda Farley was selling. And if Koby’s murderer came from the church, Mason Britt would be my first choice as shooter. He had the training and the temper.
My backup plan, should I fail to photograph Jaytee, included finding Nandy’s parents and squeezing them until they coughed up useful information.
To that end, I slipped from Cece’s house and hurried to my car. Like a land shark, Roscoe came up behind me, growling his evil little growl, eyes crackling with intelligence, little goatee aquiver with anticipation.
“Go home.” I stopped to point in the direction of Harold’s. “You’re injured and you need to stay home.”
“Grrr-rrr-rrr-rrrrr.” His beady little eyes danced.
“Roscoe, go home. You have broken ribs. You can’t go with me.”
“Grrr-rrrrr-rrrr—ahhhh!” He sounded positively possessed.
I ignored him and walked to the driver’s side.
“Aaarrrrfffff!”
His sharp bark was like a bullet crack. Holy moly, he’d have everyone in Cece’s house out in the yard if he kept it up.
“Shut up!” I knelt down and took his face in my hands. “I know what you’re doing. You’re blackmailing me into taking you. I can’t do it. You’re injured. If something happened to you, Harold would never forgive me. Now go home.” I pointed again. I had no doubt Roscoe understood every word I said. The thing was, he chose to disobey.
Roscoe held his ground.
At any moment Coleman or Tinkie would come out of Cece’s house and find me trying to make a getaway. I tried once more to open the car door and Roscoe tilted his head and barked—softly. As if to say, “I can make it loud if I really have to.”
“You demented little beast!” I waved him into the car. “Come on.” I would take him with me and lock him in Dahlia House. As my aunt Loulane would opine, there was more than one way to skin a cat, or an impish little dog.
Roscoe hopped gleefully into the front seat and sat down like royalty waiting to be chauffeured. I had to run by Dahlia House to check on Sweetie and Pluto, and to get some tools, namely my camera and telephoto lens. My pistol was already in my purse.
Graf had once accused me of excellent rationalization skills. Perhaps. Or maybe I was just an optimist. My mission to Hemlock Manor was dangerous, but I had faith I could pull it off.
I had to believe that if the kidnappers meant to kill Jaytee, he would have been dead on Cece’s floor. His abductors wanted leverage. For what I didn’t know, but I couldn’t wait around to find out. There was a troubling aspect to my theory that Farley and his cult were behind Koby’s murder, Mike’s shooting, and the abduction of Jaytee. Summed up, it was simple. Why? Could they really hate the blues that much and think a nightclub was a danger to their American way of life? It didn’t make sense. Sure, they were crazy. And crazy bred crazy. But Farley, for all of his willful ignorance and backwoods mentality, wasn’t stupid. There was a big old world out there with hip-hop, jazz, R&B, rock, classical—lots of music that might not suit his taste. He couldn’t eradicate it all.
Bottom line, I just couldn’t believe Farley was that dumb. Then again, perhaps I overestimated his intelligence. No, I had shifted my focus to Mason Britt and the high-stakes offer to buy the club. I didn’t have a clear picture, but it seemed far more likely to me that someone—maybe Frisco Evans—was determined to run Scott out of Sunflower County. And Mason Britt was a powerful weapon to aim.
I pulled up at Dahlia House to find Sweetie and Pluto on the porch waiting for me, almost as if they’d communicated psychically with Roscoe. I glared at Roscoe, who was wearing his innocent face. Who? Me? When I opened the passenger door to get him out, he refused to budge and growled at me.
“Roscoe!” I wasn’t afraid of him. Exactly. He was known to snap when he didn’t get his way, but this was one battle he wasn’t winning. “Out of the car.”
“Grrrrr-rrrrrr.” With his bushy eyebrows and beard, he looked demented.
“You have to get out.”
A breeze blew by me as Sweetie Pie sailed past the front seat and into the back. Pluto, who could not be hurried if his tail were on fire, sauntered up to the car and jumped into the front seat with Roscoe.
Roscoe growled at the cat, then licked his head.
“Out!” I pointed to Dahlia House. “All of you. Out!”
They refused to budge.
I picked Roscoe up in my arms and took him to the front door and put him inside, then went back to deal with the mutiny taking place among my own animals. I was in a hurry. I didn’t have time to fight with recalcitrant critters.
Sweetie refused to leave the backseat, and when I leaned over to get Pluto, something vile and wicked jumped on my back and flattened me in the seat. Roscoe was back. Sitting on my head. He’d rushed out the kitchen doggie door.
For a dog with broken ribs who wasn’t supposed to exert himself, Roscoe was not being a good patient.
“Fine.” I had to hurry before Coleman got the report I was MIA and figured out where I was headed. “I can lock you all in the car. You can just sit and wait—”
My lecture was cut off by the mournful sound of minor piano chords. I froze as the sweet, musky scent of gardenias filled the air. I knew what was coming. “Not now!” I said aloud. “Time is crucial!”
A rich, distinctive voice sang lyrics I knew by heart. “Southern trees, bear a strange fruit…” The words painted the legacy of violence and blood that had scarred the South for too many generations.
I pivoted and faced Billie Holiday on the front lawn of my home. Thin as a rail, elegant in sequins, and tired, she sang the song written by a Brooklyn schoolteacher that never failed to move me.
My father had told me the history of “Strange Fruit,” and the courage of the composer and the performer who took on racism at a time when such things could be deadly. Daddy had lectured me on the price for standing up for justice, and he had instilled in me that good people took a stand. Like Abel Meeropol, the songwriter, and Atticus Finch, a fictional attorney. Doing the right thing always came with a price tag.
Jitty, as Billie Holiday, sang the lyrics with grit and passion. I needed to hurry, but time had to be taken to hear this song. And with each line, my fear for Jaytee grew. Was Jitty telling me the harmonica player had been killed? A victim of senseless violence?
“Tell me he’s okay,” I begged as soon as she’d finished.
“Be careful, Sarah Booth.”
“Jitty, just tell me. If something has happened to Jaytee, it will kill Cece.” My own life had been upturned by loss, but what confronted Cece was so much worse. Graf was alive and living his life in Hollywood. I could imagine him happy and healthy. Such would not be the case if a cult of crazies killed Jaytee to drive home a point about music or race or gender or whatever their warped agenda might be.
“Hurry, Sarah Booth. There’s no time for talk or second guessing. Be careful and hurry.”
I didn’t wait for a second command. I rushed inside for the camera, made sure I had my gun, climbed behind the wheel, and fishtailed down the drive. Whatever Jitty’s purpose in my life might be, she’d galvanized me to action. I had my equipment and my four-legged posse. I would find Jaytee and I would do whatever was necessary. Co
leman was right about that. The one thing I would take from this season of loss was a true knowledge of myself and my ability to defend what I loved and believed in.
16
The drive to Hemlock Manor took me past peanut, corn, and soybean fields. Another two weeks would bring Thanksgiving. I wanted to have a party, like my mother used to have. A celebration of friends on the one holiday devoted to harvest and homecoming. Pumpkin pies, turkey with dressing, all the trimmings. I could cook most of it, but Millie, Tinkie, and Cece would bring dishes. Or at least advice. Tinkie had been banned from the Hilltop kitchen because her last experiment with doggie treats almost required the EPA for disposal. Alcohol might be a safer choice for her.
I tried to think of pleasant things as I drove toward a dangerous encounter. Jaytee was in danger. I’d underestimated the people who’d taken him. My fingers traced the outline of the telephone in my jeans pocket, but I didn’t call Coleman. He was hampered by the law, and if he arrived too soon, he would prevent me from getting the evidence he needed to act.
I could do this quicker, better, and with no legal entanglements other than a possible trespassing charge. I seemed to be acquiring a slew of those.
All I needed was one clear photo of Jaytee on the premises.
I replayed the layout of Hemlock Manor, piecing together the places most likely to hide a human hostage. The wild card was whether Bijou was involved in this. The logical answer was no—Harold had invited the church congregation onto her property without her knowledge or consent. Yet I couldn’t discount the fact that Mason Britt, her foreman, had been copying flyers for Farley’s organization on her equipment. That proved nothing, but it ignited my suspicions and tickled my gut instinct.
If I couldn’t find Jaytee outright, I had my fallback plan. Nandy’s parents were likely still members of the church. Finding them would be trickier and would require a lot more risk.
I’d never studied the deeper psychology of cults, but I understood the participants yielded their individuality to be accepted into the whole. The hallmark of a cult was the loss of personal identity. The Manson cult was the famous example. They rampaged and killed “the rich and beautiful” at the behest of their leader. Charles Manson vilified a particular segment of society and his followers savagely killed them.
And the Reverend Jim Jones’s Kool-Aid mass suicide was another example of people who’d fallen under the sway of a man who used what he called religion to control others. Over three hundred people, most willingly, drank poison. They gave it to their children.
Members of both Manson and Jones’s cults were willing to kill and be killed to protect their leader.
The power one charismatic leader could wield over a group of adults amazed me. In a belief system where one race or gender was treated as inferior, the bond could be even stronger. Adolf Hitler launched a world war based on such insanity.
I couldn’t imagine letting someone break me down and make me believe I deserved second-class treatment—or that I should treat anyone else as inferior—but I’d seen it more than I cared to in abusive marriages. Women who cried for help while their husbands beat them and then turned on the police who arrived to save them. Domestic calls were most cops’ worst nightmare.
And it cut across both genders. But mostly women were oppressed, and especially those in a religion or culture that fostered a woman-as-servant philosophy.
Turning down the private road to Hemlock Manor, I could only hope my supposition was correct—that the cult ringleaders had shifted from the church grounds to Bijou’s more accommodating property and brought their hostage with them.
Sweetie’s soft yodel came from the backseat. She, too, was singing the blues. Somehow the animals sensed I was driving into danger. They were anxious and attentive.
“It’ll be fine. I’m already one trespassing charge in the hole, why not go two for two?” Talking to the animals was becoming a bad habit. Jabbering clearly showed nervousness. I was afraid. No way around it. Too much hung in the balance.
Torn between a need to rush and a desire to play it safe, I parked in the woods on the grounds of Hemlock Manor. Now I wished I hadn’t nicknamed the place for a poison. I didn’t need a premonition of death. Not even for Bijou. I disliked her enormously, but I didn’t want her dead. I didn’t want anyone else to die.
I pulled deep enough into the trees where no one could see my car if they drove past. I grabbed my handgun and my camera. “Stay here,” I warned the animals. “I’ll be back.” It was a promise I meant to keep.
I slipped out the door and closed it before any of the critters could follow me. Sweetie Pie sent up a heartrending howl. Roscoe bounced in the passenger seat like a possessed bobble toy. But it was Pluto who sent an icy chill through my heart. He put his front paws on the dashboard and glared at me. The hair along his spine and tail stood on end, and he arched like a Halloween caricature.
He was one angry pussycat.
Before I lost my resolve, I headed through the woods, glad the day was bitter cold and all the ticks, yellow flies, and mosquitoes were long dead.
Any Delta girl worth her salt can navigate through woods and fields using the sky for directions. I angled ever eastward, jogging until I was out of breath, and then walking. I would start a fitness routine the minute this case was solved. The very second! Wheezing and blowing, I leaned against a tree trunk to catch my breath. I’d calculated that my route would stretch about a mile. I had to be close.
The woods around me were alive with birds and small creatures crackling in the leaves. The wild things fell silent when danger approached. They’d learned how to survive by being still. I had to be as canny.
A male voice stopped me on an inhale. I froze.
“Mason, you’re needed in the tractor shed.”
It was a completely normal thing to hear on a working farm, yet my lungs tightened with fear. Mason Britt had to be within shouting distance. I’d closed in on the house quicker than I’d calculated. I couldn’t see the person who spoke because of the thicket of trees, unusual on a Delta plantation where the rich topsoil was so valuable for growing crops. I thanked my lucky stars, though, that I had cover to hide in.
Success depended on caution and the ability to slip around the property without getting caught. First I had to ascertain where everyone was situated. I eased forward, the camera ready, the gun tucked into the waist of my jeans. After I started my fitness regime, I would purchase a shoulder holster. And take shooting lessons. And ballroom dancing. And definitely jump on that diet. Right after I took down these creeps.
Inching forward toward the clearing where several pickup trucks, three tractors, a cotton picker, and assorted vehicles were parked, I realized I’d come upon the place where farmworkers parked and reported for duty. From this central location, they’d be sent into the fields to till, harvest, cut—whatever was necessary. I judged Hemlock Manor to contain at least four thousand acres. The land would be in production year-round, with cotton the primary money crop. Still Bijou would grow corn, soybeans, peanuts, any number of other crops, just in smaller acreage. The work would keep a team of farmers busy all year.
And Mason was in charge of organizing the farm. Which meant that if he did his job properly, he would be constantly on the move, overseeing projects, making sure things were done right. If I were really, really lucky, he would leave the main house property and head to the fields, taking most of the men with him.
“What about the winter rye? We should get that seed out. I can take Juan and his crew and get started on it,” the same man asked Mason.
I’d crept close enough that I could see Mason behind a pickup. He was talking with another young man who wore short sleeves in the bitter cold. His arms bulged with muscles and tats.
“Yeah, good idea,” Mason said. “I have errands to do for Ms. LaRoche.”
“I thought the errands you did for her took place in the main house,” the man said. “Until she started hanging around with that old man. He can�
��t give her what you can, but he can buy a lot of shit you can’t. You’d best be careful or you’ll lose a really good thing. If he catches on to what you and the missus do together, he won’t tolerate it.”
He had to be referring to Yancy Bellow. He was older, and he was also very wealthy. Money attracted money, and if I knew a thing about Bijou, she wouldn’t hesitate to marry Yancy and keep her boy toys on the side.
“I’m not worried.” Mason sounded as arrogant as ever. “I’ve got what she needs. The old man is a mark.”
The other man laughed. “We’ll see about that. Where did those church people come from? They showed up here this morning and took over the slave cabins like they’d been invited in. The women, hell, they look like something from a pioneer history book with those dresses down to the ground and their hair all done up. Are they Amish or something?”
Mason visibly tensed. If his reaction was any indication, it would seem the other farmworkers didn’t know of his affiliation with Reverend Farley and his church. This exchange should prove interesting.
“They’re not Amish. They’re God-fearing women who know how to dress not to provoke lustful thoughts in men.”
Okay, I was officially pissed. Now women were responsible for men’s thoughts. Really? The farmhand was taken aback. This wasn’t the reaction he’d anticipated.
“Sorry, man. Didn’t mean to step on any toes. I’ll round up the crews and get them off to the fields. We’re running late for the afternoon chores as it is.” He was walking away when Mason spoke.
“No offense taken. This has been a mess. Folks coming and going and no one where they’re supposed to be.” He was so tense the muscles of his neck stood out like cords. “You haven’t seen any more strangers around here, have you?”
“No, just the work crew. Should I be on the lookout?”
Mason shook his head. “The church people are leaving. It was a mistake they came here. Someone got their wires crossed.” He loosened up and grinned. “Ms. LaRoche was fit to be tied. Someone sent out an invite for them to move into the slave quarters and use the main barn for their church. When she finds out who did that, she’s going to put a whuppin’ on them. Just be careful what you say about folks and their religion, Jimbo.”
Bone to Be Wild Page 22
