Harris seemed pleased with the result. “Do you have a picture of your daughter?”
“Of course.” Emily drew out her wallet. “I’m pretty sure my housekeeper already gave one to the New York police.”
He tapped the drawing. “I’m going to fax this to every station in the country, and I want her picture with it.” He rushed off.
Officer Serra gave a half-smile that looked to be cracking her face. “You can get a cup of coffee in the waiting room.”
“Thank you, but what I really need is Internet access. Are you wireless here?”
She shook her head. “We’re hardwired. It’s a hassle to keep wireless secure. But there are hookups in the press lounge. I’ll show you.”
Emily followed her into a cramped room and sat at one of the many tables. She attached her laptop to a T1 line. For several minutes, she stared at the waiting screen. Then she opened a search engine and typed Avant-garde Religions in the South.
Before long, tabbed websites lined the browser. She delved deeper, narrowing the search as she went. No one bothered her. At one point, Harris set a paper cup of coffee upon the table, but he left as silently as he appeared.
She searched for New Age churches that appeared more than twenty years ago, and then for churches headed by women. At last, she found a church in the swamps of Louisiana that had been in existence since 1971.
It was run by Chastity Williams, who claimed to be spit out of hell itself and knew firsthand the punishment for wickedness.
SEVENTEEN
After a relay race of increasingly rickety planes, Emily crossed into the wetlands of southern Louisiana. She gazed out a spotted window at oil fields and patches of water. Near the horizon, she recognized Lake Charles, but saw no major cities.
When the landing gear thumped and shuddered into place, she was alarmed at the surrounding isolation. How would she find Chastity Williams in all this emptiness?
As the plane lowered, she saw a lone highway traveling north and south through the blue and green landscape. Then she saw the airport, Southland Field. It had only one runway that was long enough to accommodate the twin-engine prop-job she sat in.
Emily leaned back. Her fold-down seat shook, and her head bounced against the wall. The wheels grabbed asphalt with a jerk. Rattling and listing, the plane taxied to the apron. The engines whined down. Ears ringing with sudden silence, Emily unhooked the seatbelt and retrieved her backpack.
The pilot opened the hatch and extended a ladder. “Here we are, Miss Goodman. Watch your step, now.”
“Thanks for the ride.”
“Yes, ma’am. Hope you find what you’re looking for.”
She disembarked, glancing around. The airport’s two hangars were the only structures for miles. She saw a helicopter and three other planes, but no people. Several cars sat before a building swathed in a banner proclaiming Fly/Drive In Pancake Breakfast First Saturday of the Month 7:00 a.m. She slung her backpack over her shoulder and went inside.
The lobby was white with pink plastic chairs. Floor-to-ceiling windows showed the green vista beyond. Despite the cars, only two people were present.
A boy with narrow shoulders and shaggy hair leapt to his feet, approaching anxiously. He appeared to be around seventeen and had Southland Field embroidered on his pocket. “Can I drive you anywhere, ma’am?”
“Do you work here?” Emily asked, taken aback by his youth.
“Courtesy car,” said a woman behind a counter of chewing gum and aspirin. “Takes you into Sulphur.”
“I’m headed south toward Hackberry,” Emily told her.
The boy stepped nearer. “I can take you to the Rent-a-Car. There’s a nice diner there, too.”
Emily mustered a smile. “That will be fine.”
He grinned. “Can I get your bags?”
“I’m traveling light.” She walked to the glass counter, examining its contents. “Got any Band-Aids?”
The woman motioned behind her. “There’s a vending machine in the Ladies.”
Emily nodded her thanks and walked toward a hallway promising restrooms.
The Women’s Room was spotless and smelled like lemons. She leaned over the sink, examining her face. The hollow of her left eye was black, her brow swollen and tender. She unwrapped the gauze from her forehead. Mottled bruises surrounded a gash with five stitches.
On the wall, a vending machine sold trial-size versions of feminine hygiene products along with the coveted Band-Aids. She inserted fifty cents, and the machine dispensed a thin cardboard box. Inside the box, she found two bandages. She used them to cover the gash and the worst of the bruising. Then she tossed the wad of gauze into a trash bin and returned to the lobby.
“All set?” asked the boy.
“Yes,” she said, careful not to nod her aching head.
He held the door, and she stepped outside. The sun was high and bright, but the air was cool, no more than seventy degrees. A line of migrating birds flew overhead. The only sound was the rustle of a flag.
The boy led her to a white Ford Explorer. “Front seat okay? Or would you rather stretch out in back?”
“I’ll sit in front with you,” she said.
He helped her into the passenger seat, and then circled to the driver’s side. As he climbed in, he said, “My name is Tom.” He slammed the door.
Emily cringed and raised trembling fingers to her forehead. “Hello, Tom.”
“I’ll have you to town in a jiff.” He twisted in his seat to look behind as he backed out of the parking spot.
He looked too small, too young to handle such a large van. But he pulled smoothly out of the lot and onto an access road that ran parallel to the runway.
“How far is Sulphur?” she asked.
“About five miles. Go ahead and ask me anything. I’ve lived in this area all my life.”
“All right. What do you know about a little place called Chastity Commune?”
He pulled a face. “Are you sure that’s around here?”
“Supposed to be the other side of Hackberry.”
“Never heard of it.” He grinned. “Damn. You stumped me your first try.”
Emily frowned, gazing out the window at the expanse of trees. What if she couldn’t find this woman who allegedly escaped from hell?
With a spray of dirt and gravel, they pulled onto LA 108 East, and then turned north on LA 27. North—the exact opposite of where she had to be. The highway was straight and flat, and Emily assumed it was the road she saw from the air.
“Where you from?” Tom asked.
“Do you mean where was I born or where have I been lately?”
He glanced at her, smiling. “Born. Where are your roots?”
“Grand Rapids, Michigan, which can be considered either a small city or a large town depending on your mood.”
“You’ll feel right at home in Sulphur.”
“Don’t plan to be there long enough,” Emily said.
“You got family in Hackberry?”
She looked at him. “What makes you think that?”
“I don’t know. You got no bags, so wherever you’re going you must have clothes.” He glanced at her again. “You’re running, aren’t you? Husband? Boyfriend? My mama’s like you—a battered woman just looking for a little peace. Only she never left my pa. He’s in jail now—got caught robbing a convenience store in Carlyss. Every time the phone rings, she jumps, thinking it’s him saying he’s coming home.”
Emily turned away in silence.
After a moment, Tom said, “Well, good for you is all I’m trying to say. God bless your courage. I hope the sonovabitch gets what he deserves.”
“Me, too,” she murmured. She hadn’t thought it through that far. But what if she could? What if she could do more than rescue her daughter? What if she could exact revenge upon the devil himself?
Hazy buildings popped from the horizon, and soon a sign said Sulphur City Limit. The Explorer slowed, encountering traffic lights and pedestrians for the first time. The
buildings were single-story red brick, the streets cracked and patched.
“Quiet town,” Emily said.
“Everyone’s inside watching the game. We don’t have much to look forward to around here except football.”
It all looked so normal—people chatting, going about their lives as if the world hadn’t just stopped and a child hadn’t been lost.
At the corner of South Cities Service Highway and Maplewood, he pulled over and hopped out. Opening her door, he held his hand to help her down.
“There’s the Rent-a-Car I told you about,” he said, pointing.
Overhead flickered a green Enterprise sign.
“And there’s the diner. The catfish is fresh.”
Sure enough, to the left, a restaurant called The Cajun Kitchen.
“Anything else I can do?” he asked.
“How much do I owe you?”
“Nothing. Transportation is courtesy of Southland Field.”
“Can you accept tips?”
He grinned. “Always.”
Emily handed him a twenty, then turned away before he could say anything more, heading toward the diner.
* * * *
Tom watched her walk away. She didn’t look dangerous, but he wasn’t the one to make that determination. He reached into the van, opened the glove compartment and pulled out a cell phone. He frowned, dialing with his thumb.
“Hello, Jacques? Yeah, it’s me. I just drove a woman in, says she’s headed your way. She’s asking questions about Chastity Commune. Yeah, I thought it was interesting, too. No, she’s alone. She looks beat up. Yes, sir, I can. Be happy to. Yes, sir. I won’t let her out of my sight.”
* * * *
Fatigue dragged Emily’s steps like a physical weight. She approached the diner, pushing inside.
The crackly sounds of radio football greeted her. Several people looked up—part of a late lunch crowd that stayed to listen to the game. Emily chose a table near the window and stared out at the street. Seconds later, a waitress appeared.
“Are you still serving breakfast?” Emily asked, refusing a menu.
“All day long,” the waitress told her. She had a motherly face with a smile that lit her eyes. “What can I get you?”
“I’ll have a cheese omelet and a large orange juice.”
“Coming right up.”
Emily watched her walk away. She thought of her own mother and wondered if she should have called her parents to tell them about April. There hadn’t been time, of course. Besides, what would she say? She couldn’t tell them the truth. They’d never believe her. She’d only give them another excuse to call her an unfit mother.
She thought of Tom asking about her roots. Emily had been raised in Michigan, but she didn’t have family there anymore. Her parents lived in a retirement village in California. Emily’s childhood memories centered on her grandfather’s farm. He’s the one she should have called, she thought with a pang.
The waitress returned, setting a tall glass of OJ on the table. “Just passing through, hon?”
Emily looked at her. “I’m trying to find a place called Chastity Commune. Have you heard of it?”
“No, I’m afraid not.”
“I have,” said a man at the next table. “That’s them bunch of nutters down by Long Point Bayou.”
“Did someone say they’s looking for Chastity Commune?” a man asked from a few tables away.
“This woman here,” said the waitress.
“Well, I’ll be,” said the man. “You’re the second person in as many days asking for that place.”
Emily cleared her throat. “Someone else was looking for it?”
“Sure was. I remembers it clear ’cause the man came into my station. Only he wasn’t there for gas, all he wanted was a glass of water. He’s on foot, see? Tall guy. Lots of tattoos.”
EIGHTEEN
“T-tattoos?” Emily stared at the man two tables over. He must be mistaken. How could Joey be in Louisiana if he’d gone back to hell?
But if Joey was in town, there was a chance of getting him to take her to hell with him. For a moment, she considered how preposterous that sounded.
“Did you tell this tattooed man how to find Chastity Commune?” she asked.
“I gave him the general direction.”
“Can you tell me?”
He turned over his napkin. “Since you’re so pretty, I’ll draws you a map.”
Emily looked at the waitress. “Can I have that omelet to go?”
“Sure, hon.” The woman smiled. “Just give me a minute.”
The man giving her directions and the man who’d called Chastity Commune a bunch of nutters argued over the drawing of the map.
“She turns before then,” the nutters man said.
“She turns at the sign for Calcasieu Lake.”
“Right, and that’s before then.”
Emily gulped her orange juice, watching them. Joey must also be looking for Chastity Williams. If Emily found her first, maybe she could use that information as leverage. What a lucky turn—both people she needed to see in one place.
Why, though? Unease reared like an ugly snake. Why would Joey want to find Chastity after all these years? Vanessa said they didn’t see her anymore. She said the woman was pious. Joey, on the other hand, exuded malevolence and barely contained violence.
Had he come to harm the woman? Perhaps he knew Chastity had information Emily needed. Did he plan to stop her from talking?
“Here y’are.” The man slapped the decorated napkin before her, snapping Emily from her reverie. “Take Huntington Street to Ruth Street to Hackberry Highway.”
“That’s the slow way,” the nutters man said, peering over his shoulder.
The first man raised his voice, thumping the napkin with a thick finger. “That’ll get you to LA twenty-seven. Go south past Carlyss and into Hackberry. Twenty-seven becomes Main Street in town, but don’t pays that no never mind.”
“Right,” nutters said. “Just stay on the road.”
“Chastity Commune is betwixt Hackberry and the Sabine National Wildlife Refuge.”
“I can’t thank you enough.” Emily stood, picking up the napkin. It had a crude map in black ink on one side, The Cajun Kitchen printed on the other.
“I knows you, don’t I—from the TV?” The man blushed, making his balding head shine. “Yeah, I knows who you are. Some folks expect the bayou to be knee-deep in snakes and voodoo. I just wants you to know we ain’t all like that.”
“Is Chastity Commune into voodoo?”
He raised his beefy hands. “I’m a longtime member of Saint Peters down in Hackberry. That’s all I’m saying.” He returned to his table.
Emily looked at the other man.
“Bunch of nutters,” he said, sitting again behind his half-eaten hamburger.
Emily walked to the front, stopping at the register. The sound of the piped-in football game was louder there, and it was several moments before anyone noticed her.
“Can I have my bill?” she asked a man in a tie and short-sleeved shirt.
He thumbed through a stack of blue and yellow slips. The waitress pushed through a swinging door carrying a white paper sack. “Here you are, hon. I sandwiched the egg between the toast to make it easier to eat while you’re driving. And here’s a refill on your juice.” She snapped a plastic lid onto a Styrofoam cup.
“Thanks. I appreciate that.”
Emily paid with a credit card and went outside. It was three o’clock. She looked at the bright blue sky and wondered when it got dark on Long Point Bayou.
Forty-five minutes later, she sat in a rented Subaru Outback, heading for LA 27. Traffic was light. She was soon out of Sulphur and into Carlyss.
Emily recognized buildings she’d passed on the ride up from the airport—an abandoned gas station with broken windows, a red brick home with a yellow porch. What she originally took to be a park turned out to be the Mimosa-Pines Cemetery. After a short time, she again saw South
land Field. A small plane flew toward the airstrip, coming in for a landing.
Of course, the napkin she taped to the dashboard held none of these landmarks—it showed a long straight line with hatch marks for intersecting roads and a blob of a lake to one side. The napkin fluttered in the breeze from the open window.
Emily needed the cool air. Her head bobbed and her eyes burned with lack of sleep. She drank half the orange juice, and then unwrapped the sandwich. The eggs were lukewarm. Strings of melted cheese dripped onto her chin.
From the side of the highway, a small sign announced Hackberry City Limit, population 1699, Jacques LaRouge, sheriff. Emily lowered her speed, searching for a gas station. She expected gas prices to be lower so near the oil fields, but they were just as high as up north. After paying at the pump, she bought an off-brand cola from a vending machine and continued driving.
As she’d been warned, the road changed to Main Street while in town, but returned to LA 27 beyond the city limits. She leaned toward the windshield, looking for dirt roads that matched the hatch marks on the map.
When the highway took a westward jog, Emily became alarmed. The line drawn on the napkin was straight. She argued with herself about whether or not to keep traveling when she saw a rutted turn-off and a sign that read Calcasieu Lake.
She almost missed the road. She swerved off the pavement and skidded on gravel. The Subaru lurched over rocks and gullies. She gunned the engine, pressing forward.
Trees gathered tight; the sun darted through their shady canopy. She glimpsed water through the brush, but the road was dry and had steep banks.
Emily perked. This must be the right place. It wasn’t a mere fishing trail—it was a planned and maintained road, although barely wide enough to accommodate a single car. She wouldn’t have found it if not for the kind gentlemen at the diner.
Birdcalls drifted through her open window along with the heavy perfume of flowers and rich, moist loam. Moss hung from the trees. Occasional branches scraped her roof. A limb snapped off and bounced upon the hood. She yelped, thinking it was a snake. After that, she closed the windows.
Clearings leapt from the darkness of the trees as if spotlighted by slanting yellow sun. Candy wrappers and beer cans littered the brush. A couple of tires and a bullet-riddled refrigerator sat beside a No Dumping sign.
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