33
I awoke the next morning to the ring of my cell. I had left it on and plugged into the wall for charging. The voice on the other end was a man’s, but it wasn’t familiar. A slight drawl.
“Mr. Trevor Black, this is Pastor Wilhem Ventrie of the Levee Road Community Church in Port Sulphur.”
I told him I was grateful for the call.
“We need to talk. But not over the phone. Have you had breakfast yet?”
I was still waking up. Food wasn’t on my list. “No . . .”
“Good. Meet me at Captain Jack’s Oyster Bar.”
“Yeah, I think I saw it off of Levee Road yesterday.”
“That’s the one. I’m buyin’. My treat.”
I was glad to oblige, though I couldn’t see how oysters at 8 a.m. would be anybody’s treat.
I slipped into the other room where Heather was sleeping soundly and dropped a second note on the nightstand, telling her where I was and why.
Pastor Ventrie was a man in his sixties, heavyset, with a ruddy face. He was already sitting in a booth by the window of the café when I arrived. He asked me to recount again what brought me to Port Sulphur, and I gave him a paper-thin account —investigating on behalf of a New Orleans attorney the death of Lucinda and the disappearance of young Peggy —and showed him the same poster I had displayed to Deputy Ben St. Martin. “I suspect it all might be part of a wider criminal enterprise involving young girls.”
He looked at the poster and shook his head. “No, she’s not familiar. Don’t know about this one.”
“This one?”
“Yes. This particular one.”
“There are others?”
The waitress hustled up to us, and the pastor ordered oyster quiche. I went for the tamer stuff: scrambled eggs and crab cakes.
He leaned forward and asked in a low voice if I was a “saved man.”
“God changed me radically when I had my faith encounter with Christ, if that’s what you’re asking.”
He nodded. “Ben . . . Deputy St. Martin, he thought as much. He’s a member of our church. Well, then you know about the battle with demonic forces, as the Word of God says, not against flesh and blood, but with the principalities and powers of the unseen world . . .”
“More than you can imagine.” I nudged closer to the issue. “Can you give me specifics, why you wanted to meet with me?”
He glanced around the café, which was already more than half-full. He was about to tell me something, but our plates showed up and he stopped. Pastor Ventrie prayed a blessing over the food, expressing gratitude for the grace of God and the sacrifice of Christ on the cross, and for “Trevor Black, that he may fight the good fight for the faith, not only opposing the deeds of darkness, but even exposing them . . .”
When he finished, I thanked him for praying for me and for the Scripture that he had mentioned. “Paul’s letter to the Ephesians. Powerful and true,” I said.
He nodded. Then he drilled down deep. “I have a member of my church. He’s been in turmoil ever since he turned his heart over to the Lord Jesus Christ. Wrestling with something. I know a little about it. But I’ve got to figure things out.”
“Legal things? In my prior life I was a lawyer.”
“Yes, legal. I did talk to a member of our board of elders who’s an attorney. I won’t be able to share things unless that church member gives me permission to tell his story. I want to do the right thing, but these legal matters are like quicksand.”
“I’m guessing you’re probably caught between being a mandated reporter of sexual abuse on the one hand and honoring the privacy of a church member who has confided in you spiritually.”
“That’s it exactly, Mr. Black.”
“I don’t want to put any pressure on you, Pastor, but time is of the essence. There are young girls out there at risk. Every day that goes by, more of them are abducted and turned into human traffic for a ruthless business. Some disappear forever. I’m sure Port Sulphur is a fine place to live. But evil doesn’t know boundaries. Of course, who am I to preach to a preacher about that?”
He smiled.
“Who knows,” I said, “maybe you’ve been called to help us stop this.”
A nerve had been hit. I could see it in his eyes. “Port Sulphur is a good little place. Honest, God-fearin’ people. Tough times, though, economy-wise. But lately there’s been . . . not quite sure how to put this . . .”
“I’m all ears.”
“A spirit of demonic oppression is comin’ over a few of the people. Floatin’ in like a poison cloud. Involvement in vile sensual appetites for children . . . children, mind you. On the Internet. Horrible things. I’ve preached against it. Summoned the powers of Christ against it. Prayed and fasted over it. It breaks my heart.”
Then he added something that screaked like a siren. “What’s worse,” he said, “is that I am hearing tales of voodoo worship being involved in all of this. Rumors of spells being cast and such. To give these child predators special powers of protection. My land, Mr. Black, this is Armageddon taking place.”
I wondered how much I could share with him. I opened the door a crack. “Last night I was harassed by a man in a big pickup truck as I left the Subway sandwich shop outside of town. He was driving a Chevy Silverado. It could have turned deadly. I don’t think it was an accident. Who, besides you and Officer St. Martin, knows I’m here or why I’m here?”
Pastor Ventrie’s eyes widened, mouth pulled tight. “Only that church member of mine. Just him. I didn’t even tell our attorney about you. Maybe I should have . . .”
“I have a favor to ask.”
“Yes, if I can.”
“Don’t tell that church member of yours about our meeting today. Or anyone else. Not yet.”
“I can honor that. You know, I felt led to meet with you this way. In person. Just the two of us, privately. I didn’t even feel right about us talking over the phone. This church member of mine that I’ve been talkin’ about, he thinks somethin’ funny is going on with his phone.”
Note to file: that registered with me. Meantime, I needed to hustle back to the motel and check on Heather.