Uncharted Territory

by Betsy Ashton

  ####

  “I think I found our teacher.” I could hardly wait for Whip to get on the satellite phone.

  “Duxworth-Ross. A Brit? Is he stuffy?”

  “Well, he speaks the Queen’s English and has excellent manners, but stuffy? Not in the least. Very passionate about teaching. I have to check his references. I want you, Em, and Alex to talk with him as soon as possible.”

  “Let me know when.” Whip smiled. “By the way, have you talked to Johnny today?”

  “Not yet. Why?”

  “Change of plans.”

  “Where?”

  “Going to Mississippi.” Whip gave me nothing but a destination. How the heck was I supposed to plan for a state, not a town or a city?

  “Katrina?”

  “Yes.”

  “Mississippi? Why not New Orleans?”

  “We build roads. We’re going where we can get to work right away. I have no idea what they’re going to do in a submerged city.” Whip’s excitement about the new job indicated how even a small piece of the massive reconstruction would net huge profits for his company.

  “Gotcha.”

  “Johnny’s going down tomorrow to scope out the conditions.”

  There went Johnny’s trip to New York. Again.

  “It’s gonna be primitive. The tidal surge wiped out most everything. If you don’t want to come, I’ll understand.”

  “Get real. I’ll coordinate with Johnny.”

  “He’ll know better after he gets there.” Whip turned to speak to someone out of my sight. “Gotta go. Good luck with Ducky.”

  “Ducks. I doubt he’s ever been called Ducky.”

  “Ducks, then.”

  I sat alone in the silent den after I powered off the laptop. Ducks intrigued me. I wanted to know more. He’d better send his résumé the next day. I was running out of time.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  New York, week of August 29

  I read every report I could on the destruction in Mississippi. The media’s near-total immersion was New Orleans, but whole towns in adjacent states vanished. Just plain disappeared. No trace except piles of rubble and twisted, broken homes. Anguished interviews with Mississippi’s governor, Haley Barbour, offered little beyond the number of dead and missing. I studied background material on towns I’d never known about before the storm: Bay St. Louis, Pass Christian, Biloxi, and Gulfport.

  Okay, I knew about Biloxi and Gulfport but not Pass Christian or Bay St. Louis, or any of the other small towns no longer there.

  Johnny and I talked at least once, sometimes twice a day. Between calls, I measured the back of my Land Rover and every box and suitcase accumulating in the living room. How much could I take with me? How much should I ship to Whip’s office? Amid the dislocation of moving into an RV and swatches of materials and paint chips from Corey, plus selected glossy photos from the vault inventory tacked to the walls, my apartment was my own personal disaster zone.

  No matter how many times we spoke, my last call of the night was with Johnny.

  “Hi, pretty lady.” Johnny sounded as weary as me.

  “Back atcha, funny man. What’ve you been up to?”

  “Cleaning my old camping trailer. You can’t imagine the mess four men left it after we went pheasant hunting last season.” Johnny laughed.

  “Do I want to?” I perched on a chair next to a large cardboard box, a roll of packing tape at the ready to seal it as soon as it was full.

  “Probably not. Anyway, I’m ready to go.”

  “Are you driving down without me?” I’d looked forward to traveling with Johnny. I didn’t want to find my way through the desolation alone.

  “Only for a couple of days. Whip wants eyes-on reconnaissance before we drag everything to the work zone.” Johnny’s recliner squeaked in the background.

  “I’m glad I won’t have to go by myself.” I alternated between excitement of our new situation and dread of what we’d find there. I propped my elbows on my knees, phone to my ear.

  “When we go, I’ll drive my truck and haul the trailer. You can drive one of the RVs and tow your car. Whip’ll bring the other RV and tow his truck. Feel better?”

  “Yes.”

  “We have to get as many people under roofs as possible. In a pinch, my trailer can sleep four. Those who don’t have shelter will sleep in tents. It won’t be pretty, but most of the guys I’ve talked to know the drill. My first crew will arrive over the next few days.”

  “Where will we set up the RVs?”

  “In a church parking lot.”

  “Really? Why there?” I eyeballed the box. Too big for my beast. I’d have to ship it.

  “It’s supposed to be flat and kind of paved. I’ll know soon enough.”

  “Let me know as soon as you can. I need to give the coordinates to the bus company for delivery.”

  “Gotcha.”

  “Why can’t we put people in the church basement?” The most logical solution would be to appropriate shelter wherever it existed. If local people weren’t already camping out in the church, we should be allowed to do so.

  “Don’t know.”

  I needed to see the destruction to understand.

  “We need more contractors and laborers. We’ll be hiring like crazy.” Johnny’s recliner squealed again. It needed oil, but I wasn’t about to comment on a man’s chair.

  “That’s good, isn’t it?”

  “It is, if we can find workers. When I checked in with the general contractor, he said he’s leaking men.”

  “Leaking?”

  “So far two guys bolted without warning.”

  Men walking away from a good-paying job made no sense. “Bolted? You mean, they up and left?”

  “That what’s strange. There’s tons of work. Paying top dollar. No reason for them to jump to another job. Everyone’s paying pretty much the same.”

  “Better conditions elsewhere?”

  “I doubt it. If it’s true, we may have trouble keeping people.”

  “I know it’s going to be primitive, but I have to be sure the kids’ll be safe.” I picked at the ragged edge of the tape.

  “Everything’s going to be chaotic for a while until we understand what’s going on. You might want to delay coming down for a few weeks.” Johnny said. “If I thought you’d be in any danger, pretty lady, I wouldn’t let you come.”

  “Then we’ll be fine, funny man. I’ll call you in the morning.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  New York, week of August 29

  I ran errands most of the day after lunch at Eleanor’s. I laid in supplies of dried foodstuffs, my kind of condiments, spices and other seasonings and gobs of silly junk from the party store. We’d need games, CDs, and DVDs. Books too. I sagged with relief when I returned late in the afternoon to find Ducks’s work history and a dozen references in the US and England in my inbox. Please let him be as good as he seems.

  A glance at the clock told me it was too late for overseas calls. Since I wanted to reach the five English references as quickly as possible, I left messages saying what I wanted to talk about and that I’d call the next day. I had time to catch some of the Massachusetts people. My first connected call was with Ducks’s last employer.

  I peppered him with questions. “How did he relate to the students? How did he get along with the staff? Was he too strict? Not strict enough?”

  An hour later I hung up. The director of the Newman Academy could be the head of the Stuart Duxworth-Ross fan club.

  “Upright, a great teacher, a good motivator, strict but fair, better educated than most of the staff. If I had had my way, Ducks would still be at my academy.”

  “Why did he leave?”

  “He came into an inheritance and resigned to travel. If he ever wants to return…”

  Inheritance? It hinted he didn’t need a job. It also fit with Eleanor’s impression he’d welcome something challenging to fill his time. I understood how too much leisure time could be stultifying. If h
e worked out, he’d be up to his butt in alligators from early morning to late at night trying to keep up with the kids.

  I reached a former student in Maine. Another Ducks fan. She studied with him from sixth grade until she graduated and thought he was the best teacher she’d ever had.

  “What did he teach you?”

  “History and math.”

  I switched languages. She was as fluent in Spanish as me, albeit with a Continental accent to my American one. We talked for almost half an hour until I could no longer ignore the call-waiting beeps. Before I hung up, however, I asked if she knew any students who didn’t like her favorite teacher. She gave me two names, one man, one woman, and their phone numbers. Would they give a more balanced view?

  The missed caller ID was an English country code. I punched redial and reached a former student who was most anxious to talk. It wasn’t too late for him to give me an enormous list of grievances against Ducks, who didn’t have a hyphenated last name when he taught in England. The former student hated being taught in French and Spanish. He hated math, history and English. His parents sent him to boarding school because he failed everywhere else. Ducks was his last chance.

  “Did you graduate?”

  “I did. Headmaster Ducks didn’t let any of us quit.”

  “Is that why you don’t like him?”

  “I don’t like him because he made me work my arse off and wouldn’t leave me alone.”

  Uh oh.

  “What do you mean?” I’d heard rumors about boarding school behavior.

  “He kept on me to get my homework done, wouldn’t let me slack off on the rugby pitch. Even forced me to be a house advisor.”

  “What did you do after graduation?”

  “I entered the London School of Economics, left in six years with my MBA and now work in banking.” He laughed. “I still hate math.”

  “Would you send your children to study with the headmaster?”

  “Would that I could. My eight-year-old takes after his old man, I’m afraid. Short of finding another Headmaster Ducks or locking him up until he’s thirty, I’m not sure what to do.”

  I relaxed with a glass of wine and called Ducks. He threw questions at me. Two struck home. Could I put him in touch with the homeschooling coordinator in Richmond, and did they have a program for advanced placement courses?

  “If you think I’ll work out, that is,” Ducks said.

  CHAPTER NINE

  New York, week of September 5

  I opened my apartment door a second before a startled Ducks had a chance to knock.

  “My doorman called to say you were on your way.” I shook his hand. “Come on in.”

  “I’m not used to having a stranger call me by name.” Ducks stepped into the foyer.

  “I hope it wasn’t too creepy.” I hung his jacket in the hall closet.

  “Not at all. How did he know who I was?”

  “I gave him a pretty good description.”

  “Right.”

  Ducks followed me to the den, where the laptop was set up to call Whip and the kids. I opened the connection and introduced the two men. “When you’re done, will you come into the living room at the end of the hall?”

  I pulled the door closed and headed for the kitchen to check on the chicken cacciatore. I inhaled aromas of tomato broth and tons of garlic and fresh herbs. I stirred and tasted, adding some fresh ground pepper. My stomach growled. Ah shoot. I forgot to invite Ducks to stay for dinner.

  An hour later, the den door squeaked. I walked into the hall with an empty glass in one hand and an open bottle of Beaujolais in the other. I burst out laughing. Ducks wore my red pompoms. They clashed with his mop of rusty hair. I led him to the living room.

  “I couldn’t resist.” Ducks removed the headband as soon as we sat down. “These yours?”

  “Uh huh. They’re a nice diversion.” I poured wine and raised my glass. We clinked rims.

  “Emilie nearly had hysterics when I put them on.”

  “Did she double-dog dare you to wear them on the street?” I sipped my wine.

  “She did. How did you know?” Ducks turned off the pompoms before trying the wine. He smiled his approval.

  “She dared me too.”

  “Will you wear them?”

  “Of course.” What would my doorman, that oh-so-formal man, think when I exited the building in them?

  “Why?”

  “Because after my daughter’s murder, I vowed to be zanier than I’d been the previous year.”

  Ducks nodded. “Zany is healing.”

  “When I was a child, I loved The Carol Burnett Show.” I hadn’t connected the dots before, but she was one of my heroes. “She gave women permission to be goofy, even silly.”

  “I’ve seen reruns. She was funny. Did you identify with her?”

  “Sort of. She was liberating for those of us who were uptight at a time when outrageous behavior wasn’t condoned by society.” I was too keyed up to fuss any longer with goofy head gear or a comedienne with the best Tarzan yell ever. “So, what do you think?”

  “Is Alex always so excitable?” Ducks perched on the edge of the love seat and leaned forward, wineglass clasped between his hands.

  “What do you mean?”

  “He jumped from subject to subject.”

  “He’s showing off. He gets nervous when he meets new people. Don’t forget, he’s been under his father’s care for a couple of months. Discipline and manners aren’t high on the list of things Whip worries about.”

  “Right.” Ducks set his glass on the marble-topped coffee table. “What does he like to do?”

  “A little of this, a lot of that. Why?”

  “He talked about hiking and horseback riding with someone named Charlie.” Ducks raised a bushy eyebrow. “He told me his sister’s in love with the Frito Bandito.”

  That was my Alex, always trying to get the better of his sister. “The Frito Bandito’s a local Peruvian Indian who provides security for a fee. Em thinks he’s hot. Charlie’s the site boss, Alex’s first true crush.”

  “And this ‘Charlie—’”

  “—is one Charlotte Bridget Lopez-Garcia.”

  “Brilliant.” Ducks laughed.

  Was he relieved Charlie was a woman? People who hadn’t met her assumed Charlie was a man. Once you’d met her, you had no more doubts.

  “Alex said he likes computer games.”

  “Yes. We let him play those we approve.” I rattled off a list. “I can beat him in several. Paintball too.”

  “He says he’s a wiz on the Internet. True?”

  “Oh, he knows his way around the Web.” I refilled our glasses.

  “Did he really help catch his mother’s killer?” The way Ducks framed his questions gave me insight into my grandson’s overactive mind.

  “He found unsolved murders everywhere the killer had worked. He helped prove the man who murdered my daughter was a serial killer.” Oh, great. To an outsider, I must have sounded crazy. Serial killer, indeed.

  “What does Emilie like to do?” Ducks smoothed his beard.

  “She didn’t tell you? Usually, she chatters on about her interests.”

  Ducks shook his head. He leaned back, legs crossed at the ankle, but every bit as intense as when he sat down.

  I gave him the Emilie for Dummies version of her school activities: soccer, swimming, tennis, and creative writing. I left a lot out. “She does well in school. Loves studying and reading.”

  “Who’s Dracula?”

  That came out of nowhere. “My daughter’s murderer.”

  “Even though she said he can’t hurt her, she’s still afraid of him.” Again, his hand went to his beard. “She’s fragile.”

  “He can’t hurt her. He’s dead.” I picked up my wineglass but didn’t sip.

  “I see.”

  “She spent months living in fear he’d come for her. She needs a lot of healing.”

  Much as I tried not to worry, her well-being was
my number one project. I trusted her instincts about people having colored centers; colors gave clues to feelings and behavior. I assumed she wasn’t alone with her gift.

  “I think she trusts me. I can help.”

  “Good.” Whew. One huge hurdle passed.

  Ducks frowned. Silence grew from a few moments to several seconds. I let him think. Was he worried the kids might be too energetic? The interview had gone down rabbit holes I didn’t expect.

  “Let’s see if I can describe Alex. He needs guidance and discipline to get him back in the habit of studying. How were his grades?”

  “Decent to pretty good. Pretty good in math and computer science. Decent in English, civics and general science. Not good at all in history. Overall, a B average with peaks of brilliance when he got excited about a subject. He’d pass Charlie with an A plus.”

  “No ADD?”

  Another good question. We’d had Alex tested. He was excitable, but no attention deficit disorder. I understood how he’d given Ducks that impression.

  “When he’s unfocused, he’s like a bouncing ball. Impossible to follow. When he’s focused, though, the world could end, and he’d be oblivious. He sleeps like the dead. Nothing wakes him.”

  “I’ll make sure he gets lots of exercise. It’ll help him concentrate.” Ducks reached for his glass. “Can we go back to Emilie?”

  “You spent the most time with her, didn’t you?”

  “Of course I did. She’s amazing. She’s thrilled about staying with her father. She talked a lot about you, too, if you’re Mad Max.” He ran a hand over his beard again, smoothing whiskers that didn’t need to be smoothed.

  “Guilty.”

  “Are you a Mel Gibson fan?”

  “More Tina Turner.” Note to self: buy a Tina Turner wig before the next call to Peru.

  “Right.”

  “If you don’t mind, it’s getting a little late.” I scooted toward the edge of my chair. My stomach complained on cue. A timer pinged a warning from the kitchen.

  “I’ve stayed too long.” Ducks set his glass on the coffee table and stood.

  I held up one finger. “That’s not what I meant. I have chicken cacciatore with rice and salad in the kitchen, all of which will be inedible if they sit much longer. Will you join me? I want to hear more about your conversation with Em.”