by Betsy Ashton
“He had bone cancer.”
“He?” Whip asked.
“Ducks’s wife,” Johnny said.
Whip was silent.
“His death was as ugly as you can imagine. I spent night and day at the hospital at the end, even after Mr. Ross tried to have me thrown out. Fortunately, Leslie and I had taken care of everything before he got sick. We had legal documents filed with the hospital, because he wanted me to make the final decision.” The pain in Ducks’s eyes brought tears to Charlie’s and mine. “His old man threw terrible scenes. Hospital security was forced to ban him. Before he left, he gave me an earful of vitriol. It was my fault Leslie was gay. It was my fault we were a couple. It was my fault Leslie had cancer. He implied I’d given him AIDS, which caused the cancer, and we were covering it up.”
“But you didn’t.”
“It didn’t matter. In his eyes, I was a monster who’d corrupted his son.” Ducks stared out over the compound. “After Mr. Ross left, I realized I hadn’t a frigging clue about what he was going through. After all, he’d lost a son—twice.”
“When Frank, my second husband, died, I was pretty certain I knew everything about grief. When Reggie died, I learned something different. Losing three husbands was bad enough, but when Merry died, I was unprepared to wrestle with the loss of a child.”
When we rose from the table, Charlie and I put our arms around Ducks’s waist. The hug I received in return helped all of us stand straighter. The men put their hands on his shoulders.
####
By noon the day had turned nasty. Dark, dreary clouds mirrored our collective moods. Work shut down when the rain blew in sideways. Whip paced the schoolroom; Johnny glowered in a corner, a mug of coffee clenched between his large hands. Charlie rubbed her jean-covered thighs.
“Victor’s death is a game changer,” Ducks said. “We have proof they killed him. The highway patrol will have to do something.”
“They’re the only ones I trust. They’re not elected.” Johnny growled. The muscle in his jaw jumped. “The sheriff is.”
“What does being elected have to do with upholding the law?” Ducks wiped a spotless countertop with a clean cloth. “Aren’t sheriffs bound by the same set of laws as police?”
“They are, but they don’t act like police in cities do,” Johnny said.
“Sometimes they’re great, really fair and balanced in their approach to the law,” Charlie said. “Other times they’re like that cop in Jack Nicholson’s Chinatown.”
“Who?” Whip was lost.
“The Nicholson character accused the cops of doing as little as possible to solve crimes when they happened in Chinatown.”
“That fits our dear Sheriff Hardy.” Johnny set his empty cup on the sink shelf.
“Remember, we gave him the names of the feral teens and the black guys. He didn’t do anything. Hell, these guys may be doing the sheriff’s dirty work for him.” Whip refilled his and Johnny’s cups. “In any case, he may be more worried about re-election than putting these thugs in jail.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
Mississippi, week of November 14
We took a few days off. I escaped to New York; Whip took the kids to Richmond. We all needed a break. All but Johnny, Charlie, and Ducks. Charlie and Johnny stayed to keep the crews working; Ducks went back to the French Quarter. I returned a day before Whip and the kids.
Even though I was used to the stillness in Mississippi, I couldn’t sleep. I missed Emilie’s normal night sounds. No pages turning when she read in her bunk, no gentle breaths when she slept on her back. The refrigerator cycling on and off provided a familiar refrain, though, as did the crickets singing merrily away, oblivious to the pain and destruction around them.
Unrecognizable insects offered love songs, crows cawed near dawn and motorcycles buzzed along on the distant highway like furious bumblebees. They harmonized in a now-familiar background symphony. Traffic on the ancillary roads, like the one where we lived, was local cars and construction vehicles.
And one battered truck with its rotten muffler.
I glanced at my clock the first time I heard the truck travelling westward. Two thirty. That couldn’t be good. I rolled over and dozed, my deep sleep shattered for the night. Around four, the truck reversed itself and rolled eastward through pitch-blackness toward the shack where the feral teens hung out. At five thirty, before dawn but not before I was wide awake, the truck backfired its way to the front of our compound, slowed and roared away. I swung my legs out of bed. My cell vibrated with an incoming call.
“Mad Max, something bad has happened,” Emilie whispered into the phone.
“If you mean here, I know about the truck. I’m going to look.” I pulled on jeans and threw a sweatshirt over my pajama top. I grabbed the flashlight that hung inside the RV’s door.
“Don’t go alone.” Emilie’s concern from Richmond rattled me.
“I won’t. I’ll wake up Johnny and Mr. Ducks.”
“Mr. Ducks is already on the move.”
I opened the dorm door and stepped into foggy darkness. “I’ll call you later.”
Lights were on in the school bus. Ducks clattered down the steps and joined me by the Land Rover. I called Johnny, who was on his way.
“I heard the truck stop,” was all Ducks had to say.
Even though I pulled the hood up over my head, within seconds, my face and bangs were damp with fog droplets. I shivered as much from anxiety as from feeling clammy.
Three of us, armed with flashlights and one gun tucked in Johnny’s waistband, gathered in front of the Rover. I didn’t want to waste time returning to the dorm for my revolver. By the time we were halfway to the gate, Charlie and Samson caught up with us. We spread out. Twenty yards outside the gate a dark lump lay at the edge of the road. Johnny reached it first. A body face-down. When it moaned, Johnny rolled it over.
“Shit. It’s just a kid.” He ran his hands over limbs to see if anything was broken. “Looks like a broken arm.”
Ducks knelt in the dust, pulled back an eyelid and shone his flashlight. The boy lashed out and struggled to sit up, but with two men holding him, he couldn’t. When Ducks examined the back of the boy’s head, his hand came away bloody.
“He’s been beaten.” Charlie stared at the kid’s face which was covered with blood and bruises.
“Does anyone know him?”
This boy, not one of the feral teens, was a light-skinned black.
“I’ve never seen him.”
My cell buzzed. I flipped it open and spoke to Emilie while I trotted back to the dorm. I told her what we knew, which was precious little.
“You’re going to take him to the hospital, aren’t you?” Emilie was worried.
“Yes. I’m not going to call nine one one. Sheriff Hardy’s not going to waylay us. We’ll take the kid to the emergency room before we call the highway patrol.”
“You don’t know him, do you?”
“No. It’s not Spot or Goth Boy. He’s black.”
“Call Pastor Washington.” Emilie ended the call.
I pulled keys off the peg and ran to the Rover. Sampson swung the gate open to let me through. Lights popped on in the tents; men tumbled out of bed. We waved them away before loading the boy into the backseat and wrapping him in a blanket. Charlie climbed in beside him and Ducks sat in front. Johnny stayed behind to talk to the men. I asked him to call Pastor Washington.
Three hours later my two pastors walked into the emergency room. Pastor Washington gripped my hand. “I called Hodge after Mr. Medina called. I thought we should both be here.”
“Thank you. The boy’s been able to talk a little.” I consulted a piece of paper. “His name’s Antwan Biggs. Do either of you know him?”
“Antwan’s never been in no trouble,” said Pastor Washington, “but his brother’s the tattooed hulk you seen running around. LeRoy Biggs. LeRoy got hisself kicked out of our local school. He lit out for Biloxi a few years back. Mean as hog spit. Yo
u don’t want to mess with him.”
“Can Antwan tell us what happened?” Pastor Taylor sat on the ubiquitous hard plastic chair.
“He didn’t want to do something his brother and some other guys wanted him to do.” I folded the paper and put it in my handbag. “He didn’t want to kill someone, so they taught him a lesson.”
“Some goddamned lesson.” Pastor Washington’s face darkened. He waved a dismissive hand. “Yes, I know. I swore. Make good with my Lord later.”
Pastor Taylor tried and failed to hide a smile. “How bad’s he injured?”
All I knew was a broken arm, serious bruising on his torso and face, cracked skull, maybe a concussion. “He said they beat him with a bat.”
“Isn’t that the same weapon you think was used on the workers? The ones you’ve found dead?” Pastor Taylor asked.
“Yes. The highway patrol will investigate.” I paced the waiting room. “This has gotten out of control. More people are going to get hurt or killed. I don’t know how to stop the violence.”
“Maybe it’s not your job to stop it, Miz Davies.” Pastor Taylor watched me pace the emergency room. “Maybe we’re all in this together.”
“Why did you get up and go lookin’ for Antwan? Did someone tip you off?” Pastor Washington lowered himself into a chair beside Pastor Taylor, his bulk overflowing the narrow seat.
“Two things. I heard the battered truck cruise by three times. Once around two thirty, once later, around four. At five thirty, the truck returned, slowed, stopped, and left.” I wasn’t sure how to explain Emilie’s call.
“That’s one thing,” said Pastor Washington. “What’s the other?”
“You may not believe me, but my granddaughter called me from Richmond. She felt something was wrong.”
“Felt?”
“Felt. She has a gift where she can sense things happening around her and to the people she loves. I was alone. She sensed danger. She told me to be careful and to call you.” I perched on the edge of a chair opposite the two pastors.
“Looks like she was right,” Pastor Washington said. “I don’t put much truck in all that weird stuff, but if you say it works, I can’t say it don’t.”
“I’m glad Mr. Medina called,” Pastor Taylor said. “Maybe we can get Antwan to a safe place. He sure can’t stay with his brother any longer.”
“Where are his parents? Or, is he another kid who was left behind and forgotten?” With the social safety nets disrupted by Katrina, could either man find an agency to help?
“More likely the latter, Miz Davies. I ain’t seen his momma since before the storm. His daddy’s in prison up north somewhere. Been there a long time. Bad family all around.” Pastor Washington stood. “Can we see him?”
“He’s in the back. They set his arm after they moved him out of the emergency room.”
“Is he alone?” Pastor Taylor looked down the hall toward the curtained-off beds.
“Mr. Ducks and Ms. Lopez-Garcia are with him. We didn’t want him to wake up from the anesthesia and see nothing but curtains and equipment.”
“That was right nice of them.” Pastor Washington grunted and pushed himself to his feet.
“One of us has to take charge of this boy, Roland. He can sleep at my place until we find his parents or other relatives.”
“Thanks, Hodge. I’ll start lookin’ for his kin. Maybe young Alex can help.” Pastor Washington turned to me. “You’re one meddlesome woman, Miz Davies, but your heart’s in the right place. I’m in your debt.”
“Nothing anyone else wouldn’t do.” I swallowed hard.
“Kindness can be hard to come by ’round here,” Pastor Taylor said. “’Specially from a stranger.”
The Mutt-and-Jeff pastors moved down the hall. At least they were talking and working together. It was the tiniest step in the right direction. I flipped open my phone and called Emilie.
####
I went hunting for Johnny as soon as Ducks, Charlie, and I got back to camp. When I found him lounging under the mosquito netting, I planted myself in front of him, fists on hips.
“What?” Mr. Innocent asked.
“The gun. What gives?” I didn’t see it, but I had this morning.
“It’s legal, and so am I.” Johnny wrapped his arms around me and pulled me onto his lap. “When all this shit started, I went to the highway patrol to see about extending my Virginia concealed carry permit.”
“Don’t you have to be a state resident?”
“These are extraordinary times. The Department of Public Safety isn’t too bothered about residency requirements just now.” He hugged me tighter and kissed the tip of my nose. “Besides, someone other than Captain Chaos has to protect you.”
CHAPTER FORTY
Mississippi, week of November 14
“As Pastor Washington might say, we got us a mess of trouble here.” I walked around the school bus, fingering a couple of Ducks’s books. “It’s gone way beyond the gang attacking our road crews and beating up a kid. Murder and rape change the entire dynamic.”
“It’s been bad all along. Did the rape get to you?” Ducks marked a page in his book, set it on a table and laced his fingers behind his head. Joseph Conrad’s Heart of Darkness. Appropriate choice given the semi-lawless region we lived in.
I fumbled around the bus. I couldn’t sit.
“I don’t know what’s set me off, the rape or the boy’s beating. For some reason, the attacks on the workers didn’t have the same impact. Even the ones that ended with death.” Because I’d seen murder, I compartmentalized it.
“Rape’s the most personal attack possible. Women feel stronger about it than men do.” Ducks put on the tea kettle to boil. Tea with Ducks at any hour of the day replaced kitchen conversations with Whip. “When one woman is violated, all women are violated.”
I sat on the edge of a chair, ready to spring up and pace, given the right impetus. “I admit the attacks spooked me, but the rape more so.”
Ducks washed his hands. Symbolic? No, Ducks wouldn’t turn away from someone in trouble.
I returned to my dorm to start dinner.
What the heck happened to my dream of sitting back and relaxing and raising my grandchildren without danger? Why couldn’t I have peace and quiet? Why couldn’t I have a vacation from drama? As I often reminded Alex, life wasn’t fair.
####
Johnny and Charlie left together as soon as they cleaned up at the end of the workday. I was busy in the RV when Johnny’s truck pulled out of the compound. I looked up in time to see the truck turn toward Gulfport, chased by a billowing dust cloud.
I rubbed each piece of chicken with Cajun spices and piled them on a platter. Emilie was napping when I walked the chicken over to the dinner tent. Ducks and Whip talked next to the grill. I didn’t see Alex. Was he in the men’s dorm working on his computer or playing a video game?
“Where’s Alex?”
“In his dorm, sulking if I guess right.” Ducks pulled the tab on a beer.
“What did holy-crap boy-child do this time?” I waved aside the silent offer of a beer. I’d have wine later. I put the tray on the table after pulling the netting closed.
“He decided he doesn’t want to study algebra any longer. I reminded him my classroom wasn’t a democracy.”
Whip laughed. “I’d have paid money to see that confrontation. He loved that, I’ll bet.”
“Indeed. He called me a dictator.” Ducks brought the beer can to his lips but didn’t drink. “I gave him a double lesson to finish before classes tomorrow morning.”
“All hail the education tyrant.” I bowed in mock salute.
“I can’t seem to knock it into his head that studying to pass a test isn’t education. I want him to learn the material, internalize it. He can’t know when something he learns today will be of value tomorrow.” Ducks smoothed his beard.
“I, like, totally agree with you.” I used one of Alex’s favorite phrases.
“Brilliant.” Wh
ip borrowed one of Ducks’s favorite expressions.
“Where did Johnny and Charlie go?”
“To talk to several road crews.” Whip fiddled with the cooking fork before laying it alongside the grill.
“There’s more to that statement than meets the eye, Whip Pugh. Give.” I planted myself in front of the two men.
“We found a body this morning by the road where we’ve been working.”
“A body? Not another worker.” Alarm bells rang in my head. Dumping a corpse near the road was a direct message. The killer didn’t worry about getting caught. “Not over in the bayou?”
“Not a worker and not in the bayou. The dead man was a huge black guy with tattoos, but not the one we see all the time.” Whip rubbed the back of his neck. “I didn’t recognize him.”
“Pastor Taylor mentioned a few weeks ago that more men were drifting around the county.”
When Whip called the highway patrol instead of nine one one, his favorite corporal told him about a group of convicts that escaped while being transferred to a jail out of the hurricane’s path.
“Several guys are still on the loose.”
“Alex may be right,” Ducks said. “The men with the feral teens could have broken out of jail.”
I held up one finger.
“I won’t mention it,” Ducks said.
Whip drained his beer. “No one expected the gang to be this bold.”
“My gut tells me they’re not afraid of the sheriff,” I said.
I opened the hood of the grill and tested the temperature. Almost ready. I put the cooking fork in Whip’s hand and returned to the RV to fetch plates and other eating utensils. I made sure Emilie was awake and making the salad. I then checked the kitchen in the men’s dorm where potatoes were roasting in the oven.
“Alex, keep an eye on these potatoes, okay?”
No answer.
“Okay?”
I walked over to Alex’s desk and shook his shoulder. He jumped half a foot.
“Concentrating on something interesting?” He hadn’t heard a word.
“Sorry, Mad Max. I was reading a bunch of news stories about crime in New Orleans and Gulfport. The cops can’t stop anything.” Alex pointed to a list of headlines from local papers. “Why won’t Sheriff Hardy help us?”
