by Betsy Ashton
The family fell silent. The only sound around the table was chewing.
“Tops will be pleased.” Johnny was the first to take up the conversation thread.
“With either solution. Both additional crews and longer time earn us more money,” Whip said.
“It’s a start. We still haven’t attracted enough locals to make a difference.” Johnny dug into the stew. “Yummy, Max.”
Even though I’d spoken to both pastors, none of the residents who had returned had applied for jobs. Only at Hope Village had people turned out. Part of that was Habitat’s rule: You had to invest sweat equity in a house to own it after completion. Roads didn’t require the same kind of participation.
“What if we ask the families who’ll get houses to call their fathers and brothers?” Emilie’s idea was sound.
“Great idea. We’ll do that.” I patted her shoulder.
Alex was too excited to sit quietly any longer. “Mad Max, we met a guy whose house washed away. There’s nothing left but some supports poking out of the sand.”
“Supports? What kind of supports?”
Whip described a beachfront community of stilts where houses once stood. Most of the houses had towered fifteen or twenty feet above the sand. They’d had open spaces between steel supports for parked cars and storage.
“Water was supposed to flow under the houses and not damage them.”
“That worked well, didn’t it?” Ducks told us he’d ridden his bike to the end of the strip several times.
“They build them like that in the Outer Banks too. I remember seeing them when you took us on vacation last year.” Emilie tucked into an enormous bowl of stew. We went a few weeks before her mother was murdered. “It didn’t work there either.”
“It all depends on the tidal surge. No one engineered buildings to withstand what roared ashore with Katrina.”
“Dad parked under this guy’s living room. He thought we were his neighbors.” Following Johnny’s lead, Alex dunked a biscuit in his gravy until it dripped from his fingers. “He was taking pictures for his insurance company. Not much to photograph, though. A bunch of steel supports. Not even any junk.”
“It’s like a ghetto. Instead of gangs taking over a neighborhood, the sea is hell-bent on reclaiming the land.” Whip joined Alex and Johnny in biscuit dunking.
“After the man left, I swam and played with my Boogie board. Dad ran along the waterline. ”
Emilie told the men about her day. She yawned. “I’m so tired.”
“The convicts in the truck followed us. Goth Boy was in the back, but Spot wasn’t.” Alex refused to believe the black men weren’t convicts. He needed the thrill of danger, real or imagined.
“I know. We see them every time we go out. They must cruise the roads and shoreline trying to intimidate the workers.” I finished my dinner and pushed my bowl aside.
“And us,” Emilie said.
“They still tail me when I’m out on my bike.” Ducks filled in another bit of the puzzle.
I looked west where Ducks had had his initial encounter and where birds circled. The vultures were back. More of them than before. Lots more. Two columns, offset by a quarter of a mile, rose in shattered blackness.
That now-familiar brush of something stroked my cheek. I looked up. Ducks blinked once to let me know he was sensing trouble. More bodies.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Mississippi, week of October 17
My cell phone rang about nine. I’d rousted Alex out of bed to start his classes. Emilie was in the school bus having a lesson on economics with Ducks. All the men were at work. I checked caller ID. Johnny.
“Hello, funny man. Slacking off?” I poured a cup of coffee and was ready for a chat.
“No, pretty lady. I need something from my trailer.”
“Sure.”
I pulled a light jacket from a peg by the door and trotted over to Johnny’s trailer. None of us locked our doors because there was always someone in the compound keeping an eye out for strangers. Besides, Sampson was on guard duty. With his concealed handgun.
“I’m in. What am I looking for?” I stepped over piles of dirty, smelly clothes Johnny and the worker who slept in the trailer had tossed on the floor.
“I left a card from the Highway Patrol on the counter. I need the name and phone number.”
“I didn’t know you met anyone other than our Dodge Boy.” I found the card and read off the information.
“This corporal from over near Gulfport dropped by a week or so ago. Getting acquainted, he said. He was sniffing around to see if we’d had any trouble.” Johnny covered the phone and spoke to someone nearby. He was back in a second. “We told him about the missing workers and Sheriff Hardy’s lack of interest in doing anything to discover who killed our worker.”
“Where are you? You’re not at the worksite.” My senses went on high alert. I knew, just knew, Johnny was on the hunt of our missing persons’ mystery. I wrote “clean me” in the dust on the tabletop before returning to the dorm.
“I’m out by the bayou with Ducks.”
“With Ducks? I thought he was teaching in the bus.”
“We drove over this morning because the buzzards were thicker than ever.”
“And?” I puttered around the kitchen, putting away breakfast dishes and wiping the never-ending film of grit from kitchen surfaces.
“And I need someone other than Sheriff Hardy. We’ll tell you all about it when we get back.” Johnny disconnected.
I wanted answers, now. I stamped my foot.
I stopped by the school bus where Emilie was reading a text on economics in French. Alex walked in to find no teacher. He tried to wiggle out of work until he found a note from Ducks with his study assignment.
“Math. Yuck. I hate math.” Alex sulked.
“Without math, you wouldn’t have the Internet or any of your games.” School teacher mode kicked in. “Sit.”
“They’re both all right,” Emilie said, “but they found more trouble.”
Just what we didn’t need. More trouble.
“Did they find bodies? I want to go see.” Alex bolted out the bus door before I could grab him. “Come on.”
Emilie and I shot glances at each other. Had the situation not been so serious, we probably would have laughed. As it was, we watched Alex race toward the girls’ dorm where the keys to the Rover hung on a hook. I called him back to his math assignment.
I wanted to hop in the Rover and drive to the bayou, but I didn’t. I had nothing to offer but ghoulish curiosity. I carried a cup of coffee to the gate and had a quiet word with Sampson about watching out for strangers outside the perimeter. I gave him a good description of the men in the stolen truck.
“Yes, Abeulita. I know what they look like. They drive by but never stop. Like they’re watching us as much as we’re watching them. Oh, and a policeman cruises by several times a week too.”
A cop, huh? Was it the same cop who followed me from the AME tent to Hope Village? Could Sheriff Hardy be taking the threats seriously? Or could he be releasing his deputies to intimidate us?
“He has a rifle and a baseball bat with him.”
A bat? That didn’t sound like protection.
“How do you know?”
“I could see them through the rear window. He wants us to know he’s armed.”
Could it be the same weapon used to bash in the dead men’s skulls? “Do Mr. Pugh and Mr. Medina think the men should leave in pairs? Alex and Em aren’t allowed to go anywhere alone.”
“They haven’t said anything about that. I’ll ask Mr. Medina when he gets back.” Sampson waved a worker through and relocked the gate. “Mr. Ducks says it’s all right for him to ride alone.”
I didn’t like that, but no one could keep up with Ducks. When he was in his zone, the man was a veritable biking machine.
####
By mid-afternoon, each of the kids had talked with their teacher at least twice and I’d had three mor
e calls from Johnny.
Boots scraped on metal steps. Johnny and Ducks dragged in and threw themselves into chairs. I pulled beers from the fridge without asking. Johnny drank most of his before taking a breath. Ducks poured his into a tall glass, the sides of which barely got wet before the beer was gone. I fetched two more.
“Five more bodies.” Johnny rubbed worried eyes. “Two in the same place as the first group.”
“Three a quarter of a mile away.” Ducks took a measured swallow.
“All highway workers?” I was sick in the pit of my stomach. The situation had spiraled out of control.
“One wasn’t.” Ducks was pale under his sunburned cheeks. He blinked once.
Four were laborers. Johnny knew three from other crews. “The last, or should I say first, was a man named Angel. I met him when I came down alone. All of us thought he’d gone home to be with his wife, because she’s expecting their first child.”
“Why do you say first body?”
“His body was the oldest. Birds had been at it more than the others.” Johnny went to the bathroom. If it had been me, I’d be puking my guts out. Instead, he pissed and flushed. A minute later, he returned, hair and face damp from a quick wash.
Ducks hadn’t moved, except to raise his glass to drink.
“What about the last body?” I didn’t want to know, but the men needed to talk.
“Gay,” Ducks said. “Very well groomed even in the chaos we’re living in.”
“That would fit. If the predators don’t like greasers, they don’t like queers, either.” Johnny held up a hand to stop my spluttering. “Sheriff Hardy’s word choice, not mine.”
Bigot. Maybe Johnny was right. The sheriff hated everyone not from these parts or who looked different.
Johnny drank a long swallow of beer. Ducks looked out the front window, his jaw clenching and unclenching. One hand tugged at his beard.
“Don’t tell me he was there.” I paced the small open space. “Sheriff Hardy, I mean.”
“Oh, he sure was. Showed us how he viewed undesirables polluting his county with dead bodies.”
“Pastor Taylor called him as mean as a snake and twice as wily. Pastor Washington doesn’t trust him. Neither do I.”
“I called the Highway Patrol guy on his cell. He and three other men got to the dump site first. Hardy showed up late to the party. He must have been listening to the police radio, because he roared up, lights flashing and siren screaming. The Highway Patrol didn’t come out with sirens.” Johnny rubbed the cold can across his brow. “When I called them, I told them I found dead bodies, not injured people.”
“Hardy got right in the Highway Patrol corporal’s face, screaming at him for trying to take his case.” Ducks smiled for the first time. “He really threw his stomach around.”
“Let me guess, the corporal wasn’t intimidated.” The image of the corpulent red-faced sheriff made me smile in spite of the seriousness of the situation.
“Not in the least.” Ducks slid down on his spine, stretched long legs across our compact living area and rested his head on the chair back.
“After about ten minutes of posturing and making unveiled threats, Hardy lumbered to his patrol car. His belt had so many tools on it he nearly lost his pants when he climbed in the driver’s seat.” Johnny almost, but not quite, smiled. “Roared away with sirens screaming.”
“Ass,” was Ducks’s final analysis.
Johnny told the corporal about our first conversation with Hardy at the station. The corporal assured him Highway Patrol wouldn’t ignore what was going on. “They don’t give a crap about jurisdiction.”
“Don’t forget, I have Hardy’s threats on my cell.” I’d listened to the recording. Scratchy but distinct enough to hold up in court, if necessary.
“Well, that will help. At least the state authorities know.”
My neck and shoulder muscles knotted up. I had no intention of sitting down until I was sure neither of these two men had done anything stupid. I so did not need these complications.
“You didn’t wade into the muck again, did you?” I planted fists on hips. I dared Johnny to tell me he did.
“Didn’t have to. Angel was on the bank. The others were scattered close to the bank as well.” Johnny came over and hugged me. I wasn’t having any of it.
“At least we’re no longer alone. The corporal promised to come to a meeting the general contractor called. We need him on our side since it’s clear Hardy won’t do squat.” Ducks stood.
“What I don’t get is why these guys were dumped close to the construction site.”
“Intimidation.” Johnny released me when I refused to relax into his hug. “Dump them where we’d find them. Maybe it would scare us off.”
“I wouldn’t have disposed of the bodies like that. I’d have taken them into New Orleans.” Ducks moved toward the door.
“Funny, that’s what Sheriff Hardy said when we found the first ones.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Mississippi, week of October 17
I decided to spend more time at Hope Village than just Saturdays with Emilie. With way too much idle time on my hands, I built a schedule of two midweek paint days, one shopping day and two days trying to find ways to help the pastors. They’d call it meddling into their secrets, if they knew.
Ducks dropped by the manse more than once when he was out riding. Finally, Mrs. Sanchez opened the door.
“I asked when the next mass would be and if it would be in Spanish. She all but slammed the door in my face.”
“Weird behavior. I wonder what’s behind it.” I had yet to unravel the Sanchezes’ secrets. Their borderline hostility was downright eerie.
When I showed up the first midweek painting day, I was in the same house with Val, who was rolling a ceiling and dripping paint from her elbow.
“I’m such a klutz. I can’t paint overhead without splattering every inch of me.”
Valerie added paint to her roller, shook off the extra blobs and proved she was right. “Watch out.”
A glop fell at my feet. “Want to change with me? You can paint the walls.” I poured paint into my pan.
“I don’t think you’ve spent much of your life rolling paint onto ceilings, Max.” Valerie looked down from her perch atop a sturdy ladder. She winked.
“You’d be right about that. My decorator won’t let me near a bucket of paint.” I moved out of range. “By the way, I loved your column about God’s Pit Crew in the Post.”
“How did you know?” The roller hung in midair, paint drips plopping on the subflooring.
“You gave me your card when we first met. Didn’t take too much research to verify who Valerie Bysbane and Hank Adams Scott are. Even if I hadn’t remembered where I’d heard Hank’s name.” I winked. “How many people recognize either of you?”
“Very few. My picture’s on every column, but it’s small and crappy. And old. Although Hank’s name may seem vaguely familiar, not many know who he is.” Valerie turned her attention to the ceiling.
“Not many would expect the former Secretary of the Treasury to be living in their midst in an RV.” I rolled paint.
“No kidding. We get a real charge going around incognito in plain sight, if you will. Now, if we were back in the District, it would be a different matter.”
“I’ll bet.”
We filled silence with the squish and squash of rollers doing their jobs.
“How about you, Max? Does anyone around here know who you are?” Valerie climbed off the ladder and wiped her hands. “Time for more paint.”
“My close friends in our compound know, of course.” I turned a corner of the room and started on a fresh wall. “It wouldn’t make much difference, except some people might come looking for a handout.”
“Of course, anyone could find us the same way we checked each other out.”
We turned to each other and held up painty thumbs.
“Google!”
####
&
nbsp; On Saturday night, Johnny and I carried hors d’oeuvres and a good bottle of wine to the village. Midway into the evening, Hank’s phone rang.
“I have to take this. It’s Ellie.” He stepped away from the group for privacy.
Johnny was in the midst of a funny story about being raised on a cattle ranch in New Mexico when Hank returned. He held his cell out to me.
“She wants to talk to you.”
“I don’t know anyone named Ellie.” Puzzled, I took the phone. “Hello?”
“I see you have met my friends Valerie and Henry.” Eleanor’s voice surprised me.
“Ellie?”
“It’s a long story. Henry can tell you about the names.” Eleanor needed Hank’s expertise for a study for the United Nations on improving the economic status of women in third world countries. They had a kickoff set for two weeks out in Manhattan. “Ask Henry to fly up with you. His meeting overlaps with your board meeting.”
I returned the phone to let Hank say his farewells. I was a bit in a daze, but not so much that I didn’t attack him as soon as he disconnected.
“Ellie? Henry?”
Knowing Eleanor’s dislike of using nicknames, I couldn’t imagine anyone getting away with calling her Ellie. Not even the former Secretary of the Treasury.
“We met about thirty years ago. When we were introduced, she called me Henry, not Hank. Drove her nuts when I proved my given name wasn’t Henry.” He reached for the wine bottle.
Eleanor must have choked when she realized Hank wasn’t his nickname.
“How did you prove it?” Johnny tuned into the conversation.
“Showed her my passport. She couldn’t bring herself to use my given name. We struck a bargain. She could call me Henry if I could call her Ellie. Been that way ever since.”
“How do you know Eleanor?” Val seemed to be bursting with questions.
“She’s one of my Great Dames. That’s a story for a different night.”
Close to midnight, Johnny and I left. A chorus of “see you next week” followed us to Johnny’s truck. Good thing the cops weren’t patrolling the road. Neither of us should have driven the few miles back to the compound.
