Noodles bobbed up and down in the boiling water. Cybil flipped the ground beef over in the pan as it sizzled. Every time she turned the meat, it broke into smaller and smaller pieces. Father Smalls read in the spare bedroom. He’d gone in there almost as soon as Ashe had left to go back to the college. Cybil had been a little bit worried that if the priest was some kind of killer he might come after her during that time, but he hadn’t done anything since then. She popped her head in to see if he wanted anything for supper. He had said it didn’t matter much, that anything was better than the food in jail. She decided to make spaghetti, one of the only things she knew that she made well enough to serve to other people.
Some of the grease from the meat popped on her arm. She hated when that happened and let the meat simmer in its own fat. The jar of marinara sauce sat on the counter beside the stove. She grabbed it and tried to open it. Her hands slipped around the slick metal lid. She tried again using the tail of her shirt to cover her hand but had the same result.
“Father Smalls,” she yelled as she took the jar and headed toward the spare bedroom. “I need your help opening this jar. My hands are too slick.”
Cybil rounded the corner from the dining room into the living room. As she did, the jar slipped from her hand and hit the floor. It bounced on the carpet and rolled under the couch. A scream caught in her throat. Three large men stood in the living room. The front door hung open, and the cool February air came in. The largest of the men moved toward her. His movements were stiff like something automated instead of alive. The scream finally escaped.
The door to the spare bedroom flew open. Father Smalls rushed out. He stopped short almost toppling over his own feet as the smallest of the three men turned on him.
“What’s going on?” Smalls asked.
Cybil couldn’t answer. She turned and ran back into the kitchen. It sounded like Smalls threw something. Then she heard a meaty thump, and somehow knew he’d either been killed or knocked unconscious. She ripped open the silverware drawer looking for a knife as the largest man lumbered into the kitchen.
“You are to come with me, Cybil Fairchild,” he said with a voice as artificial as his walk was.
“I don’t think so.”
She pulled a paring knife from the drawer and swiped at the man. He knocked her hand away, and the knife clattered to the floor. His hand closed around her wrist. Cybil reached out and grabbed the frying pan of sizzling meat. She flung it at the man. The half-cooked ground beef flew through the air. It splattered on the man’s face and slid down. Although his skin blistered, it didn’t seem to faze him.
Terror locked down everything inside of Cybil. Never had she been this scared before. It all seemed unreal. She fumbled with all her effort to grab the pan of boiling noodles. The man jerked hard on her arm. Her hand fell on the hot eye that the frying pan had been cooking on. She squealed as her skin burned.
“We have to go. No more of this.”
As she drew her stinging hand to her stomach, he pulled a cloth sack from his pocket. He tugged it down over Cybil’s head. Everything went dark, and she smelled a tangy smell like alcohol mixed with some kind of strange fruit. Her head swam. Vertigo overwhelmed her and then nothing.
Something wasn’t right. Ashe knew it deep down inside of himself. It wasn’t just nerves from the meeting in Rogers’ office. There was something seriously out of whack. The traffic on Azalea Road moved along faster than it usually did for that time of the day. He usually avoided using that street except late at night or early in the morning, but it was the shortest route back home. Ashe wanted to get there without the usual twisting and turning through Mobile’s side streets. As he got closer to his neighborhood, a plume of dark black smoke billowed up over the pines and green leaves of the live oaks. It looked like a storm cloud descending from the blue sky. The next block, a stretch that included a gas station Ashe frequented because they had cheap coffee, brought him closer to the smoke.
The feeling of dread and anxiety overpowered him. He ran the red light at the intersection where he turned onto his street. The smoke was definitely from his block. The tires squealed as he turned onto Boleyn Court. The street was clogged with fire trucks and police cars. The red and blue lights flickered and strobed on the neighborhood houses. Ashe stopped his car so hard that he hit the steering wheel. He didn’t turn it off as he jumped out and ran toward his house or what was left of it. The smoke billowed up from the little square of property that he’d bought when he started at Alabama Tech. Flames lapped the sky at the rear, which would have been somewhere around the kitchen. The firefighters sprayed water over the front of the house. He stopped when a police officer stepped in his path.
“I’m sorry, sir, but you can’t go any farther,” the officer said.
“This is my house,” he said. “I live here.”
“Detective,” the cop yelled. “Here’s the owner.”
Cooper, wearing a long raincoat, hurried over from a group of police officers. She pushed past the cop that had stopped Ashe and stuck her hand out to him.
“We meet again,” she said.
He took her hand and shook. It seemed strange to shake hands at an event like this, but he didn’t know what else to do.
“Yes. This is my house.”
“I understand. When I heard this fire come over the radio, I hurried over. I’d like to ask you some questions.”
“I would like to ask a few too.” He pushed past her and closer to the house. “Like where are Cybil and Father Smalls?”
Cooper followed him. She put her hand on his shoulder with force to slow him down. “There wasn’t anyone inside, as far as the firefighters could tell. A neighbor called the fire in not long after it apparently started, but it burned really fast.”
“My friends, Cybil Fairchild and Father Smalls, were there when I left.” He looked toward his small garage that he didn’t use, but that Cybil’s Vespa had been parked in front of. The scooter was not there. “Her Vespa’s gone. Maybe they left to go somewhere.”
“Actually, they moved the scooter away from the house in case the fire jumped to the garage. They didn’t want it exploding and causing more problems. The same neighbor that called in the fire told the first officers on the scene that something like a moving van came up before the fire.”
“I wasn’t expecting anything to be delivered.” Ashe stopped. “Father Smalls said that Archbishop Harrington was supposed to bring by some books he had confiscated.”
“Do you mean the head of Mobile archdiocese?” Cooper asked.
“I guess. Is there more than one archbishop in Mobile?” Ashe asked. “I have no idea. I’m not Catholic.”
“I think we might need to go sit in my car and talk,” Cooper said.
“Why? My house is burning down, and you want to talk.” Ashe almost started to cry.
“Please, I think this might be just part of the worries you need to have right now.”
He looked at the detective. Her eyes were serious but concerned. Something weighed on her mind. He nodded and followed her to a white Ford Escort. She motioned for him to get in on the passenger side. Ashe walked around and sat in the car. Cooper slid under the steering wheel. She turned the car over and fastened her seat belt.
“Where are we going?” Ashe asked.
“Away from here,” she said. “I think you’re in a lot of danger.”
Ashe wanted to roll his eyes. Everyone kept telling him that, but not until he saw everything he owned and still loved eaten by fire had that idea hit home.
“Really?”
The car maneuvered past a few police cars and was free to accelerate the rest of the way down Boleyn Court until it made a U-bend and turned into Seymour Place. Cooper kept her eyes on the street. Ashe kept his on her.
“Am I under arrest?” he asked.
“No, but I need to keep you close to me for your own protection.”
“Sounds like protective custody to me,” he said.
“You watch too many cop shows. The description of the van your neighbor gave matched the one on the surveillance video at the Outlaw Center.”
“What are talking about?”
“It was the same van that Semmes’ killers used to dump his body. Now you’re telling me that the only thing that you expected to be delivered was from the head of the Archdiocese of Mobile.”
“Do you think that whoever came in that van, took Cybil and Father Smalls?”
“I think they took Cybil, but I think your priest friend was in on it.” Cooper turned onto Azalea Road. “Remember I am investigating the murder of Amanda ‘Hortense’ Moore. I was never convinced that Smalls didn’t kill her. By the way, clever how you got that lawyer to say that you were his associate.”
“That was his idea, not mine.”
Ashe felt guilty. He hadn’t trusted Smalls enough to leave Cybil alone with him, but he had. Now, she was gone and might end up like Hortense and Marianne. Smalls was some kind of sociopath to use his position as a priest to do such things.
“I’m going to take you up to a safe house in Saraland. We use it to keep suspects protected. You have to do a few things for me though. Don’t answer your cell phone unless you get a text from me telling you to.”
“They can’t trace a cell phone to a location,” Ashe said. He knew it was possible but didn’t figure that Smalls had that kind of technology or savvy. “What about my job and clothes? What about Cybil? Are you going to try and find her?”
“We’ll use whatever leads we can. Right now the only thing we have to go on is a dead end that Semmes was looking at.”
Ashe wrung his hands. “What is that?”
“A parading society called the Mystics of Mayhem. Apparently, he thought they had something to do with your fiancée’s disappearance from the morgue. He found the location where they were building parade floats, but never found any kind of evidence. We’ll get a warrant and search the place.”
“How long will that take?” he asked.
“Not long, when we have a possible kidnapping with all these strange murders and other strange things going on.”
He hoped that would be the case. As soon as they found Cybil, he planned to get her and get out of the area. His cousin lived in Memphis. That wouldn’t be too far to get in a quick amount of time, until he could figure something else out. He settled back into the seat and looked out the window as the detective drove onto the interstate. The afternoon light started to fade more and more. The sky across the bay began to turn an indigo color. He hoped they’d get to Cybil before nightfall. Bad things happened at night. He’d known that since he was a kid and listened to campfire stories and ghost tales. Now it seemed he was involved in his own horror movie.
Everything was dark, but Smalls was awake and aware. He and his kidnappers had been driving a long time. They had stopped at one point not long after he regained consciousness and unloaded Cybil. Then they moved on. After the stop and go traffic of the city, the vehicle drove a long while without much stopping or slowing down.
Smalls assumed he was being driven into the countryside. He didn’t think that the kidnappers had taken the interstate because the road noise hadn’t sounded like that. This made him happy because he wasn’t being dropped off in the delta north of the city to be left to the mercy of the alligators, who would still be moving about even in the winter.
The vehicle began to slow. It stopped. He heard the door slide open, and a hard breeze gusted into the van bringing cool air. A pair of strong hands grasped him under the arms. He felt the helpless sense of being heaved up and out. The sack over his head jerked off as he flew a few feet and crashed onto hard-packed sand. Smalls looked up in time to see the door to a white van being pulled closed. The van turned and sped away tossing sand into the air. Bits of the stuff landed on him. A few grains entered his eyes. He tried to reach around and wipe them, but his hands were secured behind his back by what felt like duct tape. Smalls blinked hard and tears welled up, making everything a blur.
As he waited for his vision to clear, Smalls sat up and took in the things around him using his other senses. The wind felt not only cold but damp. The smell borne on it was musky with brine. The scent smelled stronger than the breezes that blew in off the bay on his walks around downtown. The air even tasted salty. Not that far away he heard the ocean washing up on the shore. The bay didn’t have waves like that and the delta or a bayou wouldn’t have waves at all. Finally the sand exited his eye, and the tears started to clear out. Although the sun had almost slipped down the horizon, he could see enough to know where he was at.
“They dumped me on Dauphin Island,” he said.
Smalls struggled to his feet, which was harder than he’d expected. Once standing, he turned around, taking in the vista. To the west, the sand, and small dunes extended out. The south had a dune with wild sea oats sticking up and blowing in the wind. The gulf was on the other side. To the east, there was more sand and the tire tracks from the van. He couldn’t see the paved street that ran the length of the island until the point where the city and county had restricted people because of past hurricane damage. The kidnappers had gone past the barrier and dumped him well on the sandy side of the island. The roofs of a few vacation houses that were rebuilt after Katrina were just visible in the dying light. The island was a good forty-five minutes away from the city. His kidnappers hadn’t wanted him getting back in quickly, even though they wanted him alive for some reason.
“It’s not getting any lighter,” he said, and trudged toward the south and the small dunes separating the sandy land from the strand.
Smalls wasn’t afraid of getting lost. He knew if he kept walking in the direction of the houses he’d make it back to the street, but walking through the soft, loose sand with his hands behind his back was difficult. His balance kept tipping to one side or the other. He topped the small dune and slipped down the other side. The surf from the Gulf of Mexico washed cold around his knees as he stood back up. He turned toward the east and headed down the sliver of packed sand that marked the beach. The hard sand was much easier to walk on, and he hoped to get to a house or store before too long. He needed to get back to the city and find Ashe. Things were moving faster than he thought they would.
Security Camera: Storage Facility, Michigan Avenue, Mobile, AL, 7:24 p.m. CST
Cybil sits alone in a wooden chair. The whole space has been emptied out. Only a few remnants of float preparation lay around the room. She moves her arms, but they are tethered to the chair with rope. Hindered by the restraints, she stretches her neck to look as far behind her as she can.
A door at the back of the long room opens. Two men walk in behind her. One is the man in the hooded sweatshirt. The hood is pulled over far enough to conceal his face. The other is the swarthy man. They say nothing to each other.
Cybil yells for help and tries to crane her neck to see them. The chair nearly tips over with her. She rights it while saying something. The men continue walking toward her. Once they get to the chair they separate and walk on both sides. She looks at the swarthy man first and then at the one in the sweatshirt. Her expression changes from strained worry to disbelief.
“It’s you,” she says, expressive enough to be read on her lips.
The swarthy man laughs and slaps the one in the sweatshirt on the shoulder. He slips his hand into the pocket of his black suit coat, bringing up an ornamental-looking knife. Cybil’s eyes dart up and down from the man’s face to the knife.
The swarthy man shakes his head and waves his free hand as if telling her not to worry. He uses the knife to slice through one of the tethering ropes, and then the other. Cybil moves her arms free of the restraints. She tries to get up, but the swarthy man pushes her back into the chair. As he walks around behind her, he slips the knife back into his pocket. The man in the hood reaches out and caresses Cybil’s cheek. As he strokes it, his other hand slides down her neck and plunges into the neckline of her shirt. He fondles her breasts. She tries to move away, but the swarthy man, ever smiling with small teeth, pushes down on her shoulders. The hooded man removes his hand and begins to rub his crotch. He tugs at the zipper and starts to pull himself out of his jeans.
The smile disappears from the swarthy man’s lips. He waggles his finger at the hooded man. He speaks, and his words are heard.
“You will not rape her. If you must express your lustfulness use your usual one.”
The swarthy man claps his hands. From out of sight, Marianne walks up. She is completely naked. Cybil looks at Marianne. Her eyes widen. She looks as if she might run away, but the swarthy man continues to hold her down by the shoulders. The hooded man walks to Marianne. He pushes her to the ground and then drops his pants. They have sex in front of the swarthy man and Cybil. She closes her eyes and tries to plug her ears with her fingers, but the swarthy man will not allow her to.
“You must hear this,” he says “It will explain much.”