Bone to Be Wild

by Carolyn Haines

  “I hear ya, Mason. I didn’t mean any harm.”

  “Keep the fact the congregation was on the LaRoche property under your hat. Folks wouldn’t understand. And leave Lon here. Tell him to be sure none of the church people wander around the utility sheds. There’s some dangerous chemicals stored there. Wouldn’t want anyone to get hurt.”

  “I’ll send Lon down there. See ya this evening.” Jimbo hopped in a truck, gunned the engine, and took off.

  Mason stood for a moment, his hands clenching and unclenching. He took his church business seriously. Now I prayed he’d climb in a vehicle and leave too. My prayers were granted when he opened the door of a red Dodge Ram and drove away. I had a clear path to search for Jaytee and whatever evidence I could find.

  Using the telephoto camera lens, I checked around the area as best I could, zeroing in on places where Jaytee might be hidden. My cell phone vibrated in my pocket. I didn’t have to look to know Tinkie, Cece, and Coleman were all calling. Pissed and calling. I had no intention of answering.

  The coast was clear, and I had to make a move. Mason might be back in twenty minutes or four hours. I didn’t know, so I had to take the opportunity in front of me.

  I dodged around the vehicles, using them for cover from the main house. I didn’t think Bijou was the kind of woman who sat at her bedroom window looking out over the utility barns and shed, but I couldn’t say for positive. She might be up there with a rifle and scope ready to pick off any trespassers.

  My grand scheme to stay on the fringes and use the camera wasn’t working out the way I’d planned. The only option was to rush the premises and do a building-to-building search. This area of the farm would take time, and I knew from a Google aerial of the property that outbuildings were scattered about the vast acreage; places to store fertilizer, chemicals, equipment, even a hangar for the private planes that landed at Bijou’s small private landing strip. Many of the working plantations maintained facilities for crop dusters to touch down to refuel and restock the pesticides they sprayed. The Delta, a vast expanse of fertile land, was also geographically isolated from business centers. Private planes made trips to Memphis, Atlanta, and New Orleans much more convenient.

  Ducking and weaving, I made my way to the first shed. The smell of old hay and mold was strong. The structure contained four horse stalls, now empty except for tractors in various states of disrepair. Several closed doors held promise, but they led to rooms with shelves containing parts. There was no sign of Jaytee.

  The next shed was twenty yards away. I’d have to run across open ground. I hit it before I gave it too much thought. Fertilizers and chemicals filled this building—the tools of large-scale farming.

  Though I looked in every possible spot, the man I sought wasn’t in evidence. In fact, the only activity I saw was around the old slave quarters where the demurely clad women Jimbo had mentioned were packing things into the bed of an old truck. They worked methodically, the skirts of their long dresses catching the November wind and billowing out. They had to be cold in those skirts. I wore jeans, boots, a thick, heavy jacket, gloves, and a scarf and the wind still cut into me. Winter had come early to the Delta this year, and it promised to be bitter.

  Avoiding the packing activity, I sprinted to the big barn where I’d found Roscoe in a cage. I’d pinned my hopes that Jaytee would be there. I searched the place from top to bottom, even climbing into the hayloft, which was filled with sweet, fresh square bales that offered many possibilities for hiding places.

  I found no indication Jaytee had been held there. My heart sank. If he wasn’t here, I didn’t know where he might be. The utility sheds were scattered far and wide. The one thought I couldn’t entertain was that Jaytee was dead. That wasn’t acceptable. I had to look harder.

  About thirty yards from the big barn was the house where Mason lived. In my search for Roscoe, I hadn’t investigated the cottage. Mason didn’t strike me as the kind of man who allowed a dog in the house, but he wouldn’t blink an eye at holding a prisoner there. Now I didn’t have a choice. I was in for a penny, so I might as well jump in for a pound. Aunt Loulane might not approve of my activities, but she’d dig the fact I remembered so many of her adages.

  I scuttled across the barnyard and almost stopped dead in the middle of the open area when I saw a Chinese-red Mercedes roadster parked at Bijou’s front door. Gertrude had been looking at a car exactly like my mother’s. And there it was—parked at Bijou’s. Either Gertrude or Frisco, or maybe both, were on the premises.

  I couldn’t risk storming the main house. I pressed myself against Mason’s cottage. It occurred to me after I committed to the action that I hadn’t a clue if Mason had a girlfriend or wife or lover or roommate. I’d assumed he and Bijou had something going on, and I knew where such assumptions could lead me. Big trouble. Anyone could be waiting inside the house. I was taking a huge risk.

  Peeping in the window, I saw an old iron-framed bed covered in a worn quilt. The patchwork was stitched by hand with tiny, perfect little stitches. That homey touch hit me hard when I remembered his dead sister. I had no time to ponder Mason’s personality. I wanted to find Jaytee safe and sound. I eased around the house, checking through the windows. As best I could determine, there was no sign of the harp player. My hope hit the ground. I was so positive I’d be able to find Jaytee, clearing the way for Coleman to bring him back to Cece.

  Before I gave up, I tried the back door. It wasn’t locked, and I entered the cottage. A quick walk-through was all I had time for.

  Dirty dishes were piled in the kitchen sink. Nothing out of the ordinary. I went through the house and it wasn’t until I was in the front room that I saw a billfold laying on the coffee table. Mason wouldn’t leave his billfold behind. I opened it and saw Jaytee’s driver’s license, credit cards, and about eighty dollars.

  He’d been here. I wasn’t wrong, I was just too late. Had they killed him?

  I had the camera, but I used my cell phone to snap a photo of the open billfold on the table. I prepared a text to send to Coleman with the photo of the billfold and my location. My thumb hovered over the send button when cruel fingers closed around the back of my neck. I was so startled I dropped the phone before I could press send. The cell phone hit the floor and my attacker kicked it across the room. He snatched the camera from my hand.

  “I heard you had a yen for trespassing. This time you won’t get away with it.”

  I didn’t have to see the person holding me in a painful grip to know Mason Britt had returned and I was in a world of hurt.

  “Where’s Jaytee?” I rasped.

  “Oh, you’ll connect with him before you know it. I don’t suspect it’ll be a happy reunion, either.”

  “Is he dead?” I had to know one way or the other.

  “You’ll find out soon enough.”

  “Take me to Bijou.” I didn’t expect her to be thrilled to see me, but she was too smart to harm me. I hoped. She knew my relationship with Coleman. If I disappeared he wouldn’t rest until he found out what happened to me. And truthfully, I couldn’t see Bijou tied up in Foundation Rock Church. She wasn’t the type to put up with Farley’s belief system.

  “Bijou’s indisposed.”

  “What are she and Gertrude Strom cooking up?”

  My little distraction worked and I broke free of Mason’s grip and dove for the cell phone. I only had to hit one key. One tiny tap. Mason caught me again, and his fingers on my neck paralyzed my limbs. He shook me like a dog with a rag doll. My phone skittered across the floor and disappeared.

  The bitterness of defeat overwhelmed me. If only I’d been able to press the send button, the cavalry would be on the way. Mason’s death hold on my throat was slowly choking me, and my only hope of help was gone. I had few options left.

  “Why are you doing this, Mason? You served with Koby Shaver in a combat zone. You were friends. And now he’s dead. Why would you kill him?” I had to keep him off balance, and I had to get free of his fingers.


  Footsteps sounded on his front porch. They didn’t belong to friends of mine.

  “Mason! You in there?”

  “Shut up before I silence you for good,” he warned me. “Be out in a minute,” he called. “Check the Big Branch Field and make sure those guys are working and not sitting in the shade.”

  He didn’t want the person outside to know I was inside. Should I scream? His fingers tightened to the point I couldn’t. “Koby never did a thing to anyone,” I squeezed out. “He was a good guy trying to make a living. He was an employee, like Jaytee and Mike. They work for a paycheck. You shouldn’t hold them responsible.”

  “Musicians play the devil’s music and lure the lambs to the slaughter. Koby knew better. He was consorting with sinners. I warned him. I told him what would happen. He laughed at me and—” He broke off abruptly.

  “And who?”

  “You’re not so clever.”

  “I know Farley is in this up to his eyebrows. Where is he? I want to talk to him.”

  “Before this is over, you’ll want a lot of things. Mostly to meet your maker and beg for forgiveness. Sometimes an example needs to be made.”

  That didn’t sound promising. I struggled to free myself, but Mason only tightened his fingers. Holding me from behind, he had every advantage. I couldn’t thrash too desperately or he’d feel the gun tucked into my jeans.

  I went limp and he dragged me to the sofa and threw me onto it with enough force to knock the breath from my lungs. When I hit, I felt the gun in the back of my pants. I let myself slide to the floor, so that I was wedged between the coffee table and the couch.

  Mason held a gun leveled at me while he flipped through the photos I’d taken with the camera, which didn’t amount to diddly. I’d snapped some shots of farm equipment, hay, tools, and fertilizer. Nothing incriminating or even interesting. He tossed the camera at me. “You risked your life for nothing. You don’t have any evidence.”

  “So let me go.” I sat up, shifting so that the gun didn’t dig into my spine. If I could reach it, I’d shoot him in the leg. Or maybe someplace a lot more devastating.

  “Funny,” he said. “You’ll pay for the part you played in bringing that music here, encouraging folks to rub on each other, to socialize with the wrong people.”

  “Wrong people?” I knew what he meant, but I wanted to make him say it.

  “God didn’t intend for the races to mix.”

  There it was, the ugly bigot showing his face. Misogynistic and racist—lovely combo. “You’re wrong, Mason.” If I could work him up, distract him, send him into a rage where he wasn’t watching me so closely maybe I’d stand a chance to retrieve the gun from my back. “You’re going to be dead wrong when the sheriff gets here.”

  “God will protect us. We follow his rules, not the laws of man.” He spoke loudly, as if he had an audience of one hundred instead of one. “Our women know their place and they are obedient. Reverend Farley leads us on the righteous path. America has lost its way. Families are destroyed by indecent women and disobedient children who’ve forgotten how to support the head of the family. Women flaunt themselves and compete against men in the workplace. It’s against the natural order. You’re a harlot and a Jezebel, and I do believe Reverend Farley will take pleasure in using you as an example.”

  The footsteps on the porch paced back and forth. Could whoever was out there hear Mason’s insane ranting? If so, would he think to check inside and maybe call the law? I didn’t dare hope for such. I gigged Mason again.

  “What are you planning to do, cut my hair? Shame me in public?”

  “You’re a foolish woman, but I will tell you God promised he would never punish humanity again with a flood. Fire is his tool. Fire is your punishment. You’ll face a great conflagration.”

  For a moment I thought he meant to burn me at the stake, but then something else occurred to me. He meant to burn Dahlia House. Just as he’d burned Ned Gaston’s home.

  17

  Panic nearly choked me, but I didn’t have time to react. Mason grabbed my arm and pulled me upright. My foot caught the coffee table leg and I went down on one knee and fell forward onto my hands. Terrified that he would see the gun in my waistband beneath my shirt, I rolled onto my back. Something under the sofa glinted. My cell phone! I had to buy some time.

  “If Fred Doleman is outside, I want to talk to him.”

  Mason reached down and for a moment I thought he might slug me. Instead he yanked my arm hard. “How do you know him?”

  “I know a lot more than you think I do. And so does Coleman Peters.”

  “You don’t know squat. You and that rich bitch partner of yours run around the county setting the worst example for women. At least she has a husband, though he can’t control her. You think you can do whatever you want. You brought yourself onto sacred property wearing pants, nosing into things that are none of your business. You brought pain and suffering to people.”

  “I didn’t even talk to anyone but the preacher.”

  “They saw you. The women and girls. Your example had to be cut out of their brains, like a cancer. You and Mrs. Richmond are responsible.”

  I had hoped to reason with Mason. It wasn’t possible. And it was unlikely the men who worked for him, even if they didn’t share his views, would defy him. Help wouldn’t come from anyone at Hemlock Manor. I had to get my hands on my phone.

  “Speaking of my partner, where do you suppose she is right now?”

  “We have folks watching her and know exactly where she is. Searching for that harmonica player. And now she’s looking for you, too. She won’t find either one of you until you’ve paid the price for your sinful ways.” He was smug.

  “Where is Jaytee?”

  “You’ll see him soon enough, but you might not like what you find. You’re an ignorant woman. You were born ignorant and your parents failed to teach you.”

  Mason Britt was a true believer, and if I destroyed his notion of superiority there was no telling what he might do. I was on a tightrope, and I couldn’t slip or falter or Jaytee and I would pay the ultimate price. I edged my hand closer to the phone, but I kept my gaze on Mason. I searched his face for any reveal, any chink that could help me.

  “How did you come to know Reverend Farley?” I couched it as an innocuous question.

  “What do you care?”

  “Farley said something the other day that hit home.” I’d done some research on Mason Britt, and I knew a few of his secrets. His father had abandoned him and Mrs. Britt when Mason was young. His mother, who died when he was seventeen, had done what she had to do to feed her son and daughter. Sally Mason had been a pretty woman, and the men had been willing to pay to spend time with her. The fatal blow of Mason’s life was the death of his sister to cancer. There had been no one left for him.

  One way or another, the women in his life had abandoned him. I could see how that twisted him against women. He’d joined the service, gone to the Middle East for four tours. There he’d seen segments of society that often repressed women, forcing them to wear clothes concealing their features. Patriarchal was an understatement.

  When he came home, he fell under Reverend Farley’s influence, which solidified a lot of his attitudes about women. He was a prime case of how to make a zealot in three easy steps.

  “What could the Reverend say that you would pay any attention to?” he asked.

  At least he was curious, and every second was one in my favor. “He said that Tinkie and I were lost. That resonated with me.”

  “The Reverend is a kind man who tries to give everyone a chance. Even a harlot. He offers those who follow him illumination in the darkness.”

  “I hear what you’re saying.” If I had ever had any acting skills, now was the time to employ them. “I can’t explain it, but there’s something missing in my life.”

  He grinned, but not with amusement. “You can’t play me, Sarah Booth Delaney.”

  “I’m not playing you or
anyone else. My fiancé dumped me. For the second time. I live alone in an old family house I can barely pay the taxes on. My life is not right. I don’t know how to fix it.”

  “Maybe we should just sit down and have a good cry. Maybe give Oprah a call.”

  Sarcastic, superior bastard. I wanted nothing more than to jump up and punch him in the nose, but I forced myself into a demure posture. “Crying doesn’t help. I need … a path.”

  “Wouldn’t a rich husband who indulged your every whim—like your partner has—wouldn’t that be better than learning obedience and serving man?”

  He wanted me to grovel. Okay, whatever kept him talking. The longer we stayed in his living room chewing the fat, the more time Coleman had to find me. Even though I couldn’t reach for my phone while he watched me like an eagle, I knew the phone was on and Coleman could track the GPS chip. Given enough time, help would come for me and I wouldn’t have to lift a finger.

  Of course, if Mason gave me half a chance, I’d get the pistol from my waistband and shoot him. Cramped between the sofa and the coffee table, I wouldn’t be able to maneuver fast enough to pull this off with him two feet away. I had no choice but to keep up the charade.

  “A rich husband would be nice, but what I really want is a husband who has a direction, who has a calling and who can help me find that path.”

  “You’re a sly thing, aren’t you? Thinking you can con me.”

  “Con you?” I was all wide-eyed innocence. “I want a husband and family. Children. That’s the truth. Those things have eluded me and I have to accept my life choices are to blame. I’m doing something wrong, and I need to change before it’s too late.”