31
I shook off the paranoid apprehension. There was only one car at the sandwich shop, and it was parked around back, which meant it likely belonged to the young fellow wearing the paper Subway cap who was standing at the counter, reading a magazine until customers showed up.
After we ordered and collected our humble eats, I suggested to Heather that we dine in the car. I had my reasons for privacy.
I asked for my iPad from Heather, clicked it on while I ate, then booted up my LexisNexis search engine for legal research and handed it back to her. “There’s a reason the local pastor might be hesitant to talk.”
“You mean, like protecting his flock?”
“Might have something to do with it, but I have another thought.”
“I’d be interested to hear it.”
“You’ve been a good research partner on this case. How about doing another online search?”
She chomped down on her sub and laid the iPad in her lap. “Looking for what?” she said with a mouth still full.
“I suggest you find some cases with the following search terms: ‘Louisiana, clergy privilege, disclose.’”
She tapped it in and scrolled down some online articles, then stopped at one and started reading. As she read, she summarized it. “This is fairly current. April 2016. A teenage girl confessed to a priest about sexual abuse that occurred to her. . . . The priest didn’t report it because of the ‘seal’ of confidentiality in the confessional. . . . A judge ruled the priest didn’t have to report it despite being a ‘mandated reporter.’ . . . Appeal to the Louisiana Supreme Court . . . Doesn’t look like that court has ruled on it yet. . . .”
“That confirms my suspicion.”
“How? A pastor isn’t a priest.”
“He doesn’t have to be. The clergy privilege of confidentiality prevents an official of a religious body from being forced to disclose what was said by a lay member in a private spiritual setting, especially where it might involve a confession of some serious wrong.”
“So in our case, a wrong done by a church member?”
“Perhaps. Some admission made to the pastor that Deputy St. Martin talked to on the phone. Maybe some terrible thing that could relate to child abductions. Or the vile things done to those victims. Things available for viewing on secret porn sites. The pastor in this town could be trying to figure out where he stands under the law right now. Whether he can talk to us or not.”
“It still sounds fishy.”
“Welcome to the dark swamp of the law. I used to swim in it regularly.”
The sun was getting low as I pulled away from the Subway sandwich shop in our rented Ford Mustang. I clicked on my headlights as we headed down the road.
Then, in my rearview mirror, I saw a vehicle approaching, and it was coming fast. A jacked-up, heavy-duty pickup truck. A single driver in the front. As it roared closer, I could see him, a skinhead with a full beard and a nasty expression.
I picked up speed, but the truck was bearing down on me. I could hear some headbanger rock at maximum volume pouring out of the truck’s radio. The truck switched its lights on high beam. I accelerated. But I couldn’t shake him. The big pickup was a foot from my rear bumper. I could sense the fear in Heather, as her eyes kept darting up to see the lights in our rearview mirror.
There was a dirt pullover coming up on the right-hand side of the road, and I slowed and eased off the road to let him pass.
But when the pickup roared past, it swerved over onto the pullover in front of me, then slammed in reverse toward my front bumper.
I jammed my foot on the accelerator, wheeling to the left, and skidded back onto the paved road. I floored the Mustang. I grabbed my cell to call 911, but we hit a bump and it disappeared in that dreaded space between my seat and the console. I told Heather to use her cell instead.
“What?”
“Back at the bayou,” she said. “That’s why I’ve been using your iPad. . . .”
It was time for emergency measures. I was already calculating how long it would take, if we were run off the road, for me to pop the trunk and grab the tire iron.
I could hear the roar of the pickup even before I noticed the high beams racing up behind me. I had my foot to the floor, going over ninety as we took the turns on the country road. No streetlights. I prayed no cars would pull out from a hidden farm driveway, and no stray deer either. And that I could reach the little river hamlet of Port Sulphur before something wretched happened.
I strained my brain to remember how long the ride was from Port Sulphur to the Subway. Twenty minutes? Thirty? I had to make it back to civilization.
We were squealing tires through the turns. I knew the high-riding pickup had more power on the straightaways, but we had more agility. I was counting on that.
I was nearing a hundred and the pickup was gaining. Heather was whimpering next to me. I told her we would get back to Port Sulphur and drive straight to the sheriff’s department.
A billboard for a shipping supply store in Port Sulphur went flashing by. We were getting close. But the truck was getting closer.
I saw an intersecting side road coming up on the left with a deep ditch on each side. I took my foot off the accelerator.
“What are you doing?” Heather screamed.
The muscular pickup roared past me on the left and swerved, trying to force me off the road. I slammed on the brakes, then feinted to the left as if taking the side road. The pickup swung in front of me to block me at the intersection but went too far and tipped into the ditch.
I swung the Mustang to the right, barely missing the pickup, and gunned it straight ahead. Heather started hooting and hollering in a victory chant.
“Too early to celebrate,” I yelled. “That big rig is made for off-roading. He’ll be back on the pavement in minutes.”
A few minutes later I saw the high beams of the pickup far behind us. It was picking up speed.
But by then we were entering Port Sulphur. The pickup began to slow and then did a quick U-turn and disappeared in the opposite direction.