Uncharted Territory

by Betsy Ashton

  “We have photos,” I held up my cell phone. Seven more hands lifted cells into the air. “I have copies of photos of the attack on our friend who died in the hospital.”

  “And DNA,” said Olivia.

  “I illegally recorded Sheriff Hardy threaten us when we went to claim the first body.” I added one more piece of data.

  “Illegally? How did you do that?” Special Agent Pace smiled as if he knew the answer.

  “Let’s say my butt turned on my phone.” For a moment, I was downright proud I’d had the sense to record the encounter.

  “Doesn’t sound illegal to me.” Lieutenant Ellsworth brushed aside any concern I might have had. “How about you, Kevin? Anything in the statutes about butt dialing?”

  “No, sir.” Charlie Brown grinned.

  “Kittridge, take these cells and dump them. I want to see what they have. Tell the sergeant to bring in coffee. We’re going to be here a while.”

  The overcrowded room was thick with sweat and dust, but no one seemed to mind. A little discomfort was worth it if the attacks stopped. The desk sergeant brought a coffee urn and a tray of cups. We stood around chatting until Officer Kittridge returned with the photos on a laptop. He projected the images on the least dirty wall. We had multiple pictures of the four I’d identified, including those I’d already seen of Victor’s beating. I watched the lieutenant and the FBI agent. I was curious about the picture of the five men I hadn’t seen before.

  “You’re right about their identities, Mrs. Davies.” The lieutenant nodded. “I know these boys, except Jake Montgomery. He looks like he’s retarded or something.”

  “Pastor Taylor thinks he has Asperger’s.” My heart went out to Spot. “He’s one of the lost children who roam the outskirts of our camp.”

  “Lost children, huh? Good description, but I don’t see him with a bat or anything,” Special Agent Pace said. “More likely he’s a bystander.”

  “Except, he was there and did nothing to stop the others.” The lieutenant was a law-and-order cop.

  Could Spot have done anything?

  “Corporal, will you go back to the picture of the five men?” Johnny walked closer to the wall. He pointed to one. “Whip, this is the body we found next to the road, isn’t it?”

  Lieutenant Ellsworth jotted a note. “Not sorry he’s dead. He escaped when the storm blew in. Nasty creature. Violent as hell.”

  Alex was right after all.

  “Where are the rest of them?” Johnny asked.

  “Back in a different jail,” said the lieutenant.

  At least we didn’t have four more unknown convicts on the loose.

  “You mentioned the boys called you names.” Special Agent Pace looked around the room.

  Voices called out slurs—spic, greaser, Chicano, illegal.

  “I don’t mind ‘Chicano,’ but spic and illegal, man, those are offensive,” another worker said.

  “They told me to go back where I belong,” Olivia spoke up.

  “Where’s that?” Lieutenant Ellsworth added more notes.

  “They meant Mexico. I’m from Oklahoma.” Many in the room laughed.

  “Someone mentioned a rape.” Special Agent Pace said.

  “I did.” Olivia identified Biggs and Baptiste as her rapists. “The nurse did a rape kit and gave it to one of your men who came by to get my statement. They didn’t use condoms. You have DNA.”

  I knew how hard it was for Olivia to speak up in front of about fifteen men. Could I have done it? I hoped so, but I couldn’t be sure.

  “I have it all on voice mail.” Olivia raised her cell. “I called my home number when I realized I couldn’t get away.”

  “Why would you do that?” Special Agent Pace looked skeptical.

  “So people like you would believe me.” Olivia crossed her arms in defiance.

  Special Agent Pace had the decency to look away. His face reddened. Olivia dialed her number, punched in her code, switched the phone to speaker and glared around the room. Two voices came through clearly.

  “Let’s do the bitch. She’s hot, even though she’s a spic.”

  “Me first.”

  “Nah. Me first. You get sloppy seconds.”

  The voices turned into grunts and pants as the two men took turns.

  “That’s enough.” Lieutenant Ellsworth looked sick.

  Olivia killed the connection. She handed the phone to the corporal who left to make a copy of the recording. He took my cell as well. Might as well have a copy of my butt dial.

  “Your case or mine, Kevin?”

  “If I take it, we get them on hate crimes, murder and rape. If you take it, you get them on murder and rape,” Special Agent Pace said.

  The lieutenant nodded. “Yours. Let’s see how those men survive in the federal system. We might have been too soft on them in our local prisons.”

  “What about the sheriff?” Johnny asked. “We told him about the crimes. Don’t forget Max’s butt recorded his earliest threats.”

  “Sheriff Forrest Hardy is one mean polecat.” The lieutenant stood, signaling the end of our meeting. “Kevin, time we paid a call on Forrest.”

  Charlie and I walked Olivia and Caren back to the Rover. “I can’t tell you how proud I am of you, Olivia. I don’t know if I could have done what you did.”

  “Hell, I want to castrate the bastards.” Olivia climbed in the back with Caren. “I want an HIV test. If I got anything from them, they’ll disappear as surely as several of our friends have.”

  “If they do, no one’ll give much of a crap, either.” Charlie glared at the bare brick building housing the highway-patrol offices.

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  New Orleans, week of November 27

  Johnny and I went to New Orleans for a weekend. I had to get out of the war zone, eat something I hadn’t cooked, and have some us time. Before this adventure began, Raney warned it would be difficult to find privacy when all of us, the kids, Whip and the crew, lived in close quarters. Turned out she was right. Still, Johnny and I got away to Florida or New Orleans for a few weekends.

  We checked into the Hotel Monteleone a block off Bourbon Street. It was quieter than the Royal Sonesta, yet it maintained a similar French ambience. The hurricane hadn’t damaged the Quarter. Getting rooms was easy because the crowds that normally filled every available bed had yet to return. The front desk staff was almost painfully happy to see us. Even though the rest of the city was a charnel house, the Quarter partied on.

  Johnny and I walked along the riverfront and stopped in a small bar for a drink before deciding where to eat.

  “I’ve never had a bad meal here.” Johnny sipped a local craft beer.

  “Me neither. Let’s find an out-of-the-way place tonight. I don’t feel like putting up with even the limited crowds at the tourist restaurants.” A deep-seated fatigue took over my mind and body.

  We found a tiny storefront that served great gumbo in a back alley. Over the spicy stew and cold white wine, we talked about everything except the woes back in the camp. Later, we walked down a side street in the Quarter to a small bar with live music, where Ducks sat in with a group of local blues musicians. We waved, found a table in back, and listened for an hour or so.

  We slept late on Sunday, relishing the sun pouring through lacy curtains on our third-floor windows. I stretched my arms over my head, all relaxed and satisfied.

  “You know, you used to scare the pants off me.” Johnny rolled over, his arm across my bare stomach.

  “I must still.”

  “What do you mean?” He propped himself up on one elbow.

  “You’re not wearing pants.” I kissed his nose.

  “You know I love you, pretty lady.” Johnny had never said the words, but I had no doubt about his feelings.

  “I love you, funny man.”

  More than liking to be around someone who made me laugh, Johnny was the most comfortable man I’d ever met. We fit together.

  “I’m old school. I
want to ask you to marry me, but I’m not sure I should.” Johnny sat cross-legged on the bed.

  “I’ve always told Eleanor and Raney I was bad luck for husbands.” I pushed myself up against the headboard. I pulled the crisp sheet up to my breasts. “I don’t want to jinx our relationship by changing it.”

  “You don’t?” He almost, but not quite, looked relieved.

  I laughed. “Not every woman needs to be married to enjoy being with her man. Can we stay as we are?”

  “If it’s all right with you.”

  “Oh, funny man, did you think I’d dump you if you didn’t put a ring on my finger?”

  “Well…”

  I hit him with a pillow. In an eye blink, we waged a furious pillow fight around the room. We collapsed, laughing too hard to take another swing at each other.

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  Mississippi, week of January 9

  Work slowed down over the Christmas and New Year’s holidays. I spent Christmas with Whip and the kids in Richmond, where we arrived early enough to decorate the house. Johnny and I spent Christmas with the rest of my family before he flew to New Mexico to see his. Ducks drove to New York, and Charlie went to visit family in Texas. After the holidays, I took the train to New York to hang out with the Great Dames for a few days.

  I’d finished unpacking when my cell chirped. Incoming text message. I assumed it was from Emilie since she, Alex, and Whip were on their way back from Richmond.

  “Can you come to the Silver Slug?”

  Charlie. I texted back and walked over to her Airstream. Johnny opened the door.

  “Is there something I should know?” I kissed him on the cheek.

  “Yeah.” Johnny closed the door behind me.

  “I stopped by the manse the day I returned,” Charlie said. “I kept feeling edgy all the time I was away.”

  “Not you, too.” Did I have more spooks running around?

  “Not like Em, but I couldn’t shake the feeling something wasn’t right.”

  “Me too, Max.” Johnny held up a bottle of Jack Daniels. I nodded.

  They went to the manse together, but Mrs. Sanchez wouldn’t open the door. “When we drove off, I could see Marianna peeking out at us. I went back alone the next evening after work. This time, Marianna answered the door and let me in.”

  I was fairly certain I didn’t like where this was going. I steeled myself for the worst.

  “It took some wheedling, but Mrs. Sanchez finally told me she and Marianna are virtual hostages. Father Alvarado controls their money. If he finds they’ve overspent their budget, he cuts it. If he calls and they aren’t there, he threatens them.”

  “Wait a minute. One thing at a time, please.” I held up one finger. “He keeps them hostage?”

  Johnny had been watching the house. He’d never seen Marianna outside, with or without her mother. Charlie’s new information indicated the family lived under threats of punishment.

  “Go on.” I sipped the whisky, hardly tasting it. I took no pleasure in what was normally my favorite drink.

  Charlie wormed her way into Mrs. Sanchez’s trust. “Not only does he keep them hostage, he beats and rapes Mrs. Sanchez.”

  Charlie’s trailer was small, but I found room to pace. Was the pastoral and physical abuse what Emilie and I sensed? I wished both she and Ducks were here to substantiate my suspicions. A rush of warmth flowed through me. The feather stroked my cheek.

  “What can we do?” I didn’t see how we could step in. After all, Mrs. Sanchez was an adult. If she wanted help, she’d have to ask for it.

  “Not much for now. We watch and wait.” Johnny pulled me into his lap.

  “Besides,” Charlie said, “we can’t intervene. We have no authority.”

  I wasn’t much bothered about lack of authority. I needed to talk with Mrs. Sanchez, though. I’d find a way to help if it were legally and humanly possible. Even if it weren’t legally possible. I wouldn’t be able to live with myself if anything bad happened to either of them.

  “One more thing. We have a convergence of the gang in the truck with the rotten muffler and the Sanchezes.” According to Mrs. Sanchez, three days after we left, she heard noises late at night outside the manse. She and Marianna hunkered down in her bedroom. The next morning she found a black man’s body on the porch. She called nine one one.

  “He’d been shot.” Charlie finished the recap.

  I shivered. Bats and guns, hostages and rapists—it was too much to comprehend. Johnny walked me back to the dorm.

  “Stay the night. I don’t want to be alone.” I leaned against his sturdy chest.

  ####

  Emilie had no sooner entered the dorm than she demanded to go and see Marianna. If she could spend some time with her, I could ask Mrs. Sanchez if they were all right.

  I pulled into the drive in front of the manse behind a dusty Cadillac. Odd. I hadn’t seen any cars besides Mrs. Sanchez’s ancient beat-up Toyota. She always parked behind the church. I rang the bell. Footsteps approached the door. A man answered.

  “What do you want?”

  Heck of a greeting. Was this the missing Father Alvarado? He wasn’t wearing his collar, so I wasn’t certain. He compromised my personal space by looming over me, but I refused to retreat. I matched his attempt at intimidation with determination.

  Emilie stepped between us, stubborn chin thrust forward. “I’d like to see Marianna, please.”

  “Who are you?”

  I introduced Emilie.

  “She’s busy. Go away.”

  Before he shut the door, Mrs. Sanchez appeared in the background. She shook her head, pleading with me to leave without asking any questions. I nodded ever so slightly. I put my hand on Emilie’s shoulder when the door slammed behind us and steered her toward the Rover

  “Yuck,” Emilie whispered.

  I gripped her shoulder a little tighter. It didn’t take a psychic or a sensitive to see something was wrong. Even dense old me understood.

  “Mrs. Sanchez and Marianna are terrified. If that’s the priest, he’s not nice. I don’t like him.”

  “Me neither.”

  “It’s a good thing you didn’t shake his hand.” Emilie hopped into the front seat and stared out the window.

  “Why?” I gunned the engine and pulled to the end of the drive. The man who killed my daughter had a clammy handshake. I’d ignored the signs when he began manipulating her. Similar neon warnings flashed in front of me. This man, too, was evil.

  “He’s ice cold. You could’ve gotten frostbite.”

  Before I turned into the road, I glanced over my shoulder at the house and glimpsed Marianna’s pale face peeping from a side window. She looked scared to death. Painful memories pushed into my brain even though I wanted them to stay gone.

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  Mississippi, week of January 9

  My phone rang late one afternoon. Caller ID revealed Pastor Taylor’s name.

  “Hello?” I’d learned the hard way not to open with “Hi, Pastor Taylor.” He considered it rude. I was rude enough without trying.

  “Miz Davies, it’s Hodge Taylor.”

  “How are you this afternoon, Pastor?”

  “I’m fine. And you?”

  “I’m well. What can I do for you?”

  Outside the kitchen window pickup trucks returned from a day’s work, brown-gray dust clouds enveloping the scattered convoy. Between six and six thirty, workers trickled back to line up for showers first, dinner second. I wiped grit from the countertops in my never-ending battle to keep the kitchen clean. Flat dust smells blended with tomato and garlic from the chicken cacciatore bubbling in the slow cooker.

  “It’s more what I can do for you. Thought you’d like to know Father Alvarado drove off.”

  I had mentioned my concerns about the manse. Not that I really knew anything at the time, but my gut churned whenever I recalled my encounter with Father Ice Cube. I couldn’t tell Pastor Taylor about my gut, so I asked him to
let me know if he saw the priest leave.

  “I don’t rightly know the man,” Pastor Taylor said. “I may have spoken to him a time or two.”

  Odd that the three religious leaders didn’t interact. I said as much.

  “I’ve watched him off and on for four years, ever since he came to St. Anna’s. As far as the woman and child are concerned, I’ve only seen them together in a car.”

  Could I reach out to Mrs. Sanchez? “Are you certain he’s not running errands?”

  “I don’t think Father Alvarado runs errands. Besides, he went north. When he leaves for a month, he always heads north. Must have another congregation up there, if you Catholics have congregations.” Pastor Taylor chuckled.

  “We do.”

  “Why are you worried about that family?” Pastor Taylor had never asked before.

  “Trouble’s brewing.” I folded the towel and laid it next to the sink. “Emilie feels it too.”

  I told him about the dead man on the porch.

  “I heard sirens right around Christmas. I’m ashamed to say I never checked up to see if they needed help. Do you know I’ve never spoken to either the mother or the child?” Pastor Taylor sounded as puzzled as I was. “I’m not sure when they moved here.”

  “That doesn’t surprise me. They aren’t allowed to leave the manse except to go to the store.” I rubbed the back of my neck like Whip did when he was worried or stressed.

  “What do you mean, not allowed to leave?”

  “The priest controls their movements, even when he’s not here. Ms. Lopez-Garcia met with Mrs. Sanchez who confirmed they are practically hostages.”

  “That’s not right. That poor child never gets outside. I’d like to see her at the park once it’s done.”

  “Pastor Taylor, the Sanchezes may have problems the park can’t fix.”

  “I’ve never been comfortable around Father Alvarado. I tried to be friendly, but my efforts were rebuffed.” The pastor sounded sad. “Are most priests as, how do I say this politely, unfriendly to pastors?”

  “Not at all. My family priest had dinner every week with local ministers and rabbis to see how they could work together to help the greater Richmond community. Father Alvarado’s an exception.” I gazed outside, no longer able to focus on billowing dust clouds. Warmth flooded me and a feather brushed my cheek. I wasn’t alone.