Bone to Be Wild (29 page)

“Tell me he's okay,” I begged as soon as she'd finished.

“Be careful, Sarah Booth.”

“Jitty, just tell me. If something has happened to Jaytee, it will kill Cece.” My own life had been upturned by loss, but what confronted Cece was so much worse. Graf was alive and living his life in Hollywood. I could imagine him happy and healthy. Such would not be the case if a cult of crazies killed Jaytee to drive home a point about music or race or gender or whatever their warped agenda might be.

“Hurry, Sarah Booth. There's no time for talk or second guessing. Be careful and hurry.”

I didn't wait for a second command. I rushed inside for the camera, made sure I had my gun, climbed behind the wheel, and fishtailed down the drive. Whatever Jitty's purpose in my life might be, she'd galvanized me to action. I had my equipment and my four-legged posse. I would find Jaytee and I would do whatever was necessary. Coleman was right about that. The one thing I would take from this season of loss was a true knowledge of myself and my ability to defend what I loved and believed in.

 

16

The drive to Hemlock Manor took me past peanut, corn, and soybean fields. Another two weeks would bring Thanksgiving. I wanted to have a party, like my mother used to have. A celebration of friends on the one holiday devoted to harvest and homecoming. Pumpkin pies, turkey with dressing, all the trimmings. I could cook most of it, but Millie, Tinkie, and Cece would bring dishes. Or at least advice. Tinkie had been banned from the Hilltop kitchen because her last experiment with doggie treats almost required the EPA for disposal. Alcohol might be a safer choice for her.

I tried to think of pleasant things as I drove toward a dangerous encounter. Jaytee was in danger. I'd underestimated the people who'd taken him. My fingers traced the outline of the telephone in my jeans pocket, but I didn't call Coleman. He was hampered by the law, and if he arrived too soon, he would prevent me from getting the evidence he needed to act.

I could do this quicker, better, and with no legal entanglements other than a possible trespassing charge. I seemed to be acquiring a slew of those.

All I needed was one clear photo of Jaytee on the premises.

I replayed the layout of Hemlock Manor, piecing together the places most likely to hide a human hostage. The wild card was whether Bijou was involved in this. The logical answer was no—Harold had invited the church congregation onto her property without her knowledge or consent. Yet I couldn't discount the fact that Mason Britt, her foreman, had been copying flyers for Farley's organization on her equipment. That proved nothing, but it ignited my suspicions and tickled my gut instinct.

If I couldn't find Jaytee outright, I had my fallback plan. Nandy's parents were likely still members of the church. Finding them would be trickier and would require a lot more risk.

I'd never studied the deeper psychology of cults, but I understood the participants yielded their individuality to be accepted into the whole. The hallmark of a cult was the loss of personal identity. The Manson cult was the famous example. They rampaged and killed “the rich and beautiful” at the behest of their leader. Charles Manson vilified a particular segment of society and his followers savagely killed them.

And the Reverend Jim Jones's Kool-Aid mass suicide was another example of people who'd fallen under the sway of a man who used what he called religion to control others. Over three hundred people, most willingly, drank poison. They gave it to their children.

Members of both Manson and Jones's cults were willing to kill and be killed to protect their leader.

The power one charismatic leader could wield over a group of adults amazed me. In a belief system where one race or gender was treated as inferior, the bond could be even stronger. Adolf Hitler launched a world war based on such insanity.

I couldn't imagine letting someone break me down and make me believe I deserved second-class treatment—or that I should treat anyone else as inferior—but I'd seen it more than I cared to in abusive marriages. Women who cried for help while their husbands beat them and then turned on the police who arrived to save them. Domestic calls were most cops' worst nightmare.

And it cut across both genders. But mostly women were oppressed, and especially those in a religion or culture that fostered a woman-as-servant philosophy.

Turning down the private road to Hemlock Manor, I could only hope my supposition was correct—that the cult ringleaders had shifted from the church grounds to Bijou's more accommodating property and brought their hostage with them.

Sweetie's soft yodel came from the backseat. She, too, was singing the blues. Somehow the animals sensed I was driving into danger. They were anxious and attentive.

“It'll be fine. I'm already one trespassing charge in the hole, why not go two for two?” Talking to the animals was becoming a bad habit. Jabbering clearly showed nervousness. I was afraid. No way around it. Too much hung in the balance.

Torn between a need to rush and a desire to play it safe, I parked in the woods on the grounds of Hemlock Manor. Now I wished I hadn't nicknamed the place for a poison. I didn't need a premonition of death. Not even for Bijou. I disliked her enormously, but I didn't want her dead. I didn't want anyone else to die.

I pulled deep enough into the trees where no one could see my car if they drove past. I grabbed my handgun and my camera. “Stay here,” I warned the animals. “I'll be back.” It was a promise I meant to keep.

I slipped out the door and closed it before any of the critters could follow me. Sweetie Pie sent up a heartrending howl. Roscoe bounced in the passenger seat like a possessed bobble toy. But it was Pluto who sent an icy chill through my heart. He put his front paws on the dashboard and glared at me. The hair along his spine and tail stood on end, and he arched like a Halloween caricature.

He was one angry pussycat.

Before I lost my resolve, I headed through the woods, glad the day was bitter cold and all the ticks, yellow flies, and mosquitoes were long dead.

Any Delta girl worth her salt can navigate through woods and fields using the sky for directions. I angled ever eastward, jogging until I was out of breath, and then walking. I would start a fitness routine the minute this case was solved. The very second! Wheezing and blowing, I leaned against a tree trunk to catch my breath. I'd calculated that my route would stretch about a mile. I had to be close.

The woods around me were alive with birds and small creatures crackling in the leaves. The wild things fell silent when danger approached. They'd learned how to survive by being still. I had to be as canny.

A male voice stopped me on an inhale. I froze.

“Mason, you're needed in the tractor shed.”

It was a completely normal thing to hear on a working farm, yet my lungs tightened with fear. Mason Britt had to be within shouting distance. I'd closed in on the house quicker than I'd calculated. I couldn't see the person who spoke because of the thicket of trees, unusual on a Delta plantation where the rich topsoil was so valuable for growing crops. I thanked my lucky stars, though, that I had cover to hide in.

Success depended on caution and the ability to slip around the property without getting caught. First I had to ascertain where everyone was situated. I eased forward, the camera ready, the gun tucked into the waist of my jeans. After I started my fitness regime, I would purchase a shoulder holster. And take shooting lessons. And ballroom dancing. And definitely jump on that diet. Right after I took down these creeps.

Inching forward toward the clearing where several pickup trucks, three tractors, a cotton picker, and assorted vehicles were parked, I realized I'd come upon the place where farmworkers parked and reported for duty. From this central location, they'd be sent into the fields to till, harvest, cut—whatever was necessary. I judged Hemlock Manor to contain at least four thousand acres. The land would be in production year-round, with cotton the primary money crop. Still Bijou would grow corn, soybeans, peanuts, any number of other crops, just in smaller acreage. The work would keep a team of farmers busy all year.

And Mason was in charge of organizing the farm. Which meant that if he did his job properly, he would be constantly on the move, overseeing projects, making sure things were done right. If I were really, really lucky, he would leave the main house property and head to the fields, taking most of the men with him.

“What about the winter rye? We should get that seed out. I can take Juan and his crew and get started on it,” the same man asked Mason.

I'd crept close enough that I could see Mason behind a pickup. He was talking with another young man who wore short sleeves in the bitter cold. His arms bulged with muscles and tats.

“Yeah, good idea,” Mason said. “I have errands to do for Ms. LaRoche.”

“I thought the errands you did for her took place in the main house,” the man said. “Until she started hanging around with that old man. He can't give her what you can, but he can buy a lot of shit you can't. You'd best be careful or you'll lose a really good thing. If he catches on to what you and the missus do together, he won't tolerate it.”

He had to be referring to Yancy Bellow. He was older, and he was also very wealthy. Money attracted money, and if I knew a thing about Bijou, she wouldn't hesitate to marry Yancy and keep her boy toys on the side.

“I'm not worried.” Mason sounded as arrogant as ever. “I've got what she needs. The old man is a mark.”

The other man laughed. “We'll see about that. Where did those church people come from? They showed up here this morning and took over the slave cabins like they'd been invited in. The women, hell, they look like something from a pioneer history book with those dresses down to the ground and their hair all done up. Are they Amish or something?”

Mason visibly tensed. If his reaction was any indication, it would seem the other farmworkers didn't know of his affiliation with Reverend Farley and his church. This exchange should prove interesting.

“They're not Amish. They're God-fearing women who know how to dress not to provoke lustful thoughts in men.”

Okay, I was officially pissed. Now women were responsible for men's thoughts. Really? The farmhand was taken aback. This wasn't the reaction he'd anticipated.

“Sorry, man. Didn't mean to step on any toes. I'll round up the crews and get them off to the fields. We're running late for the afternoon chores as it is.” He was walking away when Mason spoke.

“No offense taken. This has been a mess. Folks coming and going and no one where they're supposed to be.” He was so tense the muscles of his neck stood out like cords. “You haven't seen any more strangers around here, have you?”

“No, just the work crew. Should I be on the lookout?”

Mason shook his head. “The church people are leaving. It was a mistake they came here. Someone got their wires crossed.” He loosened up and grinned. “Ms. LaRoche was fit to be tied. Someone sent out an invite for them to move into the slave quarters and use the main barn for their church. When she finds out who did that, she's going to put a whuppin' on them. Just be careful what you say about folks and their religion, Jimbo.”

“I hear ya, Mason. I didn't mean any harm.”

“Keep the fact the congregation was on the LaRoche property under your hat. Folks wouldn't understand. And leave Lon here. Tell him to be sure none of the church people wander around the utility sheds. There's some dangerous chemicals stored there. Wouldn't want anyone to get hurt.”

“I'll send Lon down there. See ya this evening.” Jimbo hopped in a truck, gunned the engine, and took off.

Mason stood for a moment, his hands clenching and unclenching. He took his church business seriously. Now I prayed he'd climb in a vehicle and leave too. My prayers were granted when he opened the door of a red Dodge Ram and drove away. I had a clear path to search for Jaytee and whatever evidence I could find.

Using the telephoto camera lens, I checked around the area as best I could, zeroing in on places where Jaytee might be hidden. My cell phone vibrated in my pocket. I didn't have to look to know Tinkie, Cece, and Coleman were all calling. Pissed and calling. I had no intention of answering.

The coast was clear, and I had to make a move. Mason might be back in twenty minutes or four hours. I didn't know, so I had to take the opportunity in front of me.

I dodged around the vehicles, using them for cover from the main house. I didn't think Bijou was the kind of woman who sat at her bedroom window looking out over the utility barns and shed, but I couldn't say for positive. She might be up there with a rifle and scope ready to pick off any trespassers.

My grand scheme to stay on the fringes and use the camera wasn't working out the way I'd planned. The only option was to rush the premises and do a building-to-building search. This area of the farm would take time, and I knew from a Google aerial of the property that outbuildings were scattered about the vast acreage; places to store fertilizer, chemicals, equipment, even a hangar for the private planes that landed at Bijou's small private landing strip. Many of the working plantations maintained facilities for crop dusters to touch down to refuel and restock the pesticides they sprayed. The Delta, a vast expanse of fertile land, was also geographically isolated from business centers. Private planes made trips to Memphis, Atlanta, and New Orleans much more convenient.

Ducking and weaving, I made my way to the first shed. The smell of old hay and mold was strong. The structure contained four horse stalls, now empty except for tractors in various states of disrepair. Several closed doors held promise, but they led to rooms with shelves containing parts. There was no sign of Jaytee.

The next shed was twenty yards away. I'd have to run across open ground. I hit it before I gave it too much thought. Fertilizers and chemicals filled this building—the tools of large-scale farming.