Little Girls Lost
To my son, John, proof that evolution can make dazzling leaps
“The Gumbo King is stepping out, and all the pretty women gonna jump and shout…”
Her eight-year-old heart pounding, Jacy Charlane crouched behind a table of turnips and tomatoes in front of the small grocery and watched the Gumbo King approach. He was singing, his king-sized voice bouncing between storefronts and apartments on the four-lane avenue.
“The Gumbo King, he’s so fine, kissing all the women and blowing their minds.”
The Gumbo King was a white man, big, but not fat. He was wearing a yellow felt crown and a purple vest. His tee shirt and jeans were black. Jacy found it strange that if the Gumbo King wasn’t singing, you never heard him coming, like cotton balls were glued beneath his shoes.
Whenever the Gumbo King turned his brown eyes on Jacy Charlane, they stole her voice and turned her knees to pudding. The Gumbo King was scary, and in the past she’d always run when she saw him coming.
But today was different: Someone in the city was stealing little girls. Gone, like they’d been snatched by goblins. One disappeared last week. Another got took just last night. People were whispering about it on the street.
“The Gumbo King is struttin’ down the street…all them gumbo lovers know Gumbo King’s got the treats…”
Jacy thought a king might be able to help find the girls. Especially one who owned his own place to eat and a humungous window sign with
THE GUMBO KING
written in red light beside a flashing gold crown.
The Gumbo King walked closer. Jacy swallowed hard and stepped from behind the table, blocking the king on the sidewalk. He stopped singing. Jacy felt the Gumbo King’s shadow stop the sun.
“You’re that Charlane girl, aren’t you?” a voice boomed from up where birds flew. “Jacy, is it?”
Excuse me, Mister King, but two little girls are disappeared and please sir you would Highness your help…
Jacy felt the rehearsed words crash together in
her mouth. She closed her eyes to hide. The Gumbo King rapped the top of Jacy’s head with a knuckle.
“Knock, knock, girl. I know you’re in there. I command you to speak to the Gumbo King.”
Jacy pressed her palms against her eyes. She felt the sun return to her shoulders and when she opened her eyes the Gumbo King was walking away, singing again.
“…So if you’re aching and empty and don’t know what to do, call the Gumbo King and he’ll see you through.”
Jacy felt like crying, ashamed she was too scared to talk to a king. She ran home and closed herself in her room, thinking to herself…
Who steals little girls? What do they do with them?
Detective Carson Ryder traced his latex-gloved finger slowly over the mattress, as if reading in Braille. His eyes were closed, his head canted in concentration, intensifying the impression of a blind man searching for messages. After a few moments he sighed and pushed black hair from his forehead, opening his eyes to survey the small, dank-smelling room.
Like most in the neighborhood, the cramped apartment was furnished on poverty’s budget: bare bulb in the ceiling, three-legged chair in a corner, torn paper curtains at the windows. The bed was a mattress on the floor, sheet pulled aside, amoebic shapes staining its surface.
A battered chest of drawers flanked the mattress, the red leg of a pair of tights drooping from a drawer like a wind sock on an airless day. Atop the chest sat a photograph in a listing frame, a black girl, eight or nine, whimsical twigs of hair poking from her head. She had laughing eyes and a smile one tooth shy of perfection.
“My baby, you’ve got to find my baby,” a woman wailed from outside the bedroom, her voice rising toward hysteria.
“Where were you last night, Ms Shearing?” a policewoman questioned. “What time did you get in? When did you last see LaShelle?”
The woman replied with a sound like a keening gull. Ryder closed the door. Another minute and the woman would be screaming.
“Is it blood?” Ryder asked the bespectacled, rope-skinny black man crouched beside the mattress, his tie flung over his shoulder.
“Old blood,” deputy chief of Forensics Wayne Hembree said, lifting a mattress button and studying its underside with a penlight. “Hell, Carson, this mattress has probably been around since the Battle of Mobile Bay. Nosebleeds. Menses. God knows what.”
Ryder let his eyes drift to the window, morning sun backlighting brick tenements across the street. A sultry day promised and being delivered, continuing a late-September heatwave as hot and fetid as lions’ breath. Right on schedule the woman started screaming. Hembree winced and turned his moonround face to Ryder.
“You see the kitchen window, the grating torn away?”
Ryder nodded.
“Think this is another one, Carson?” Hembree asked. “Abduction?”
Yes
, Ryder thought. But didn’t allow the word
to reach his lips. He opened the door to the hall outside the small apartment. It was quiet, the woman escorted away. He turned and shot a final glance at the mattress. Sunlight beamed through the window, lighting dust motes in the air. They drifted to the bedding like pinpoint flares.
“You leaving, Carson?” Hembree asked.
Ryder froze. “Is that a loaded question, Bree?”
The tech’s eyes narrowed behind thick eyeglass lenses. “It’s been a crazy couple of months. But it’ll all settle out for the best. Forget the politics and do your job.”
“Squill’s back and in charge of the department,” Ryder said, walking out the door. “And what the hell is my job any more?”
Every morning at daybreak the Gumbo King whisked white flour into hot oil to create roux, the heart of gumbo, the stew-thick concoction of meats, seafood, vegetables and spices that was the gustatory equivalent of a religious experience in South Louisianans. There was light roux the color of
café au lait
to let the delicate sea-taste of shrimp and crab shine through. For the middle roux, he let the flour touch the color of pecan skin, best for chicken. And finally, his favorite, the dark roux. The color of chicory coffee with a teaspoon of cream dribbled in, the dark roux needed sturdy counterpoint: andouille sausage, tasso ham. Shrimp and crab were nearly overwhelmed by the dark roux, but left hints against the gravy-thick sauce, playing their notes.
Gumbo was a matter of balance and harmony. Nothing more. But nothing less, either.
Behind the roux skillets, shrimp heads, chicken carcasses and vegetables bubbled in large pots. When the broths reduced to essences, the Gumbo King orchestrated the day’s gumbos, his wooden spoon a maestro’s baton on a four-count beat—stir, spice, taste, frown. When the frown turned to a smile the gumbo was ready.
The first bowls appeared in the server’s window shortly after eleven a.m., and the steaming parade of gumbo—plus brown bags of carryout—continued until early evening. After the last diners drifted out, the Gumbo King swept and mopped the sixteen-table dining room. He poured leftover gumbo into plastic tubs and drove six blocks to a soup kitchen, Charity’s Hand Mission, where the gumbo joined other donations in feeding the neighborhood’s destitute.
On his fourth trip, a year back, he’d watched in horror as Father Tim, the adolescent-faced Jesuit who shepherded the mission, poured three different gumbos together before closing them in the refrigerator.
“You can’t treat gumbo that way,” the Gumbo King snarled. “It’s discordant.”
“It’s simply gumbo,” the priest said.
“Hash is simple, gumbo is art.”
“Mixing saves time; there’s less to clean,” Father Tim reasoned.
“Then pour everything, gumbo, bread, crackers,
Jell-O, juice, coffee, into a tub and ladle it into cups. Think of all the time that would save.”
Before Father Tim could concoct a suitably Jesuitical response, the Gumbo King went for the priest’s belly.
“Have you tried my gumbo?” he asked innocently.
“They’re all incredible,” Father Tim said. “Though my favorite is—”
“So you grab yours before they’re slopped together?”
While the priest considered how much of a corner he’d backed into, the Gumbo King folded his arms, closed his eyes, and waited.
“You’re right,” Father Tim decided. “No mixing.”
“Amen,” said the Gumbo King.
Ryder left the apartment to Hembree and the techs from Forensics. He passed a fingerprint technician dusting the door frame.
“Uh, Carson,” the tech said. “About Harry. I just want to say again how sorry we all are, and how much…”
Ryder waved the words away,
not now.
The man understood and resumed his task. Ryder opened the front door of the building to find the sun had lit the sky to crystalline blue. He walked on to the stoop with the tech’s words echoing in his head, wishing Harry Nautilus was with him, that the pair could sit on Ryder’s deck, watch the gulf waves, and get deep under the hood of these horrific abductions.
But there was no Harry Nautilus. The loss of his long-time partner was devastating. When added to the reappearance of Terrence Squill as acting chief of police…
“You, Mr Po-liceman!”
An angry voice pulled Ryder from the dark tumble of his thoughts.
“You, Mr Po-liceman. Yes, you. A third black child disappeared into nowhere, right?”
Ryder halted on the stoop, sun-blind, blinking toward the source of the artificially loud voice.
“Third child?” he asked, locating the voice: Reverend Damon Turnbull in the bed of a blue pickup, bullhorn in hand. A news van pulled to the curb. A crowd began forming around the diminutive black preacher in the cream-colored suit.
“Mr Po-liceman don’t even know how many girls been stolen,” Turnbull sneered to the crowd. He aimed the bullhorn back toward Ryder. “Let me help you remember. One year ago little Darla Dumont, eleven years old, disappeared and nothin’ was ever found of her. A week back Maya Ledbetter was stole right off the street. Then last night LaShelle Shearing was slipped right out of this here apartment.”
Ryder winced. He’d been so absorbed in the two recent abductions he’d not included Darla Dumont in his count. Her investigation was ongoing, and her case was naturally being compared to the latest abductions, but his omission of Darla in the tally made him look foolish.
“I know about Darla. It’s just that we’ve been concentr—”
Turnbull wasn’t interested. He turned to the crowd.
“Someone snuck another black child away. What happens to the mother? Stuck in a po-lice car and hauled off like a criminal.”
Ryder stared across the flood of faces, puzzled by how everyone seemed to have materialized from nowhere. There’d been no over-the-air communications; the woman had called in the missing child from a public phone. Ryder had been a block away in the cruiser of uniformed Sergeant Roland Zemain, discussing a recent domestic homicide. Notice of the potential abduction arrived via the computer in Zemain’s cruiser and the pair had run silent to the address. Only the recent arrival of the crime-scene van gave indication of a problem. A few cops and techs knew. The mayor had probably been notified. That ought to have been it.
How’d Turnbull and the media get here so fast?
Ryder wondered.
“Where’s your voice, Mister Detective?” Turnbull called above the crowd, a gold-ringed finger pointing like an accusation. “And where’s that little girl’s mama?”
The mother had been taken to headquarters for further questioning, her answers incomplete and evasive, soaked in the guilt of someone who’d spent the night elsewhere, leaving her child alone.
Ryder said, “She’s been taken in for questioning. It’s routine.”
Turnbull spun to the people on the street, his face smeared with indignation. “You think they take white mamas to the police station to ask
them
questions? You think that’s what white folks think is
routine
?”
The crowd growled the negative.
“We need more information,” Ryder said, embarrassed by his voice, no match for the preacher’s resonant baritone, a voice larger than the man himself.
Turnbull waved his arms high, commanding silence.
“A white baby girl disappears, how many police they put on the trail of that child?”
“A hundred,” yelled a voice from the crowd.
“Ever’ damn one of ’em,” said another.
“We’re investigating,” Ryder called out, trying to keep his rising confusion from his words. “We’re looking into everything.”
Sergeant Zemain appeared at Ryder’s side. “I called for backup, Carson. Maybe we should haul ass while the street’s still copasetic. If they got no one for Turnbull to aim them at, things’ll chill. Otherwise…” Zemain nodded at the far end of the block, men stepping from doorways, old women hobbling their way.
“Save our babies,” Turnbull chanted. “Save our…” The crowd picked it up, fists pounding the beat against the air. Angry men pushed to the front, a dozen feet from the cops and closing. Ryder debated unholstering his weapon.
“Stop!”
The preacher’s voice cut the air. The crowd slowed, eyes skimming between Ryder and Turnbull.
“People! Stop where you are. I said stop, y’all! We’ve said our piece for now. Stand back, let them by.”
Distant sirens grew louder.
“Easy does it, Carson,” Zemain whispered. The pair walked forward as the crowd grudgingly parted. A man with arms like fire hoses spat at Ryder’s feet. A woman so old her face seemed mummified stared as though Ryder was the source of all trouble in the world. A professorial black man studied Zemain and said, “Looking snowy white today, Uncle Tom.”
Three cruisers screeched on to the sidewalk, cops with batons pushing toward Ryder and Zemain.
“Stay calm, people,” Turnbull ordered. “Don’t start no trouble cuz it’ll just fall back on us. Let’s don’t start hurting ourselves.”
Cordoned by uniforms, Ryder slipped into a cruiser beside an overweight fifty-ish patrolman known as Weez. Weez chuckled. “Nice crowd, Ryder. You passin’ out free ribs or something?”
They pulled away through a barrage of curses. Ryder turned to see the crowd slowly dispersing, angry, mistrustful eyes on both sides.
It wasn’t how Harry Nautilus would have handled it, Ryder thought.
“…ninety-goddamn-eight, ninety-goddamn-nine, one-fucking-hundred.”
Rose finished his standing curls, bent his knees and returned fifty pounds of barbell to the floor.
He plucked a towel from the weight bench and sopped sweat from his armpits before wiping his face. He undid the lifting belt and let it drop, kicking it into a corner cluttered with clothes and nutrition-bar wrappers. His thumbs slipped beneath the band of his jockstrap and stretched it open to ventilate his matted genitals.
Rose looked out the window at a rising sun backlighting live oaks hung with Spanish moss. Feeding Time. He slipped on gray sweats and went to the kitchen to make peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwiches, pushing aside a stack of
Powerlifter Monthly
. He tried to avoid touching the peanut butter; it was oily with fat and he was afraid it would somehow creep under his flesh. Though Rose was five-eleven and weighed two hundred and thirty-five pounds, he had the body fat of a competition whippet.
The sandwiches completed, he poured two cans of Vita-Pro Energizing Power Shake into a Tupperware pitcher and whisked in three raw eggs. Healthy food grew healthy bodies. The sandwiches went into a paper sack with the drink mixture.
Rose walked out the back door of the wooden bungalow, squinting in the sunlight. Though he lived in an ageing subdivision, the planning haphazard and dictated by surrounding wetland, Rose’s house stood alone, the nearest neighbor thirty yards distant and separated by a thicket of pines and water oaks. His yard was plank-fenced to six feet.
A chevron of pelicans passed overhead as Rose went to a barrel-wide shaft, hatched and secured by a heavy marine lock. The shaft descended to a submerged steel tank resembling a dwarf submarine, ten feet long, five wide, six tall. It was a hurricane shelter, a place to ride out a storm in an emergency.
Rose descended steel rungs to a chamber lit by a solitary 40-watt bulb. Two girls huddled like kittens on a cot at the far end of the cylinder. Maya Ledbetter, the one who’d been there a week, was mewing softly, LaShelle Shearing, the one picked up late last night, tried to burrow beneath the wadded blankets. The girls were restrained with lengths of clothesline knotted to the cot, the cot bolted to the floor.
“Mister Breakfast’s here,” Rose sang in a wispy falsetto. “He’s got goodies for your bellies…”
He crept forward. Maya’s eyes filled with fright. She retreated to the farthest corner of the cot. Rose set the sandwiches on a TV tray.
“Come out, come out wherever you are, LaShelle,” he prompted the crying girl. “It’s peanut butter and jelly. Everybody likes PB&J, right?”
The girl burrowed deeper beneath the covers.
Rose traded the full pitcher of shake mix for the empty one in the cooler beside the bed, then bagged the leavings in the travel toilet and replaced the liner. He turned to leave, liner bag and empty pitcher in hand. Before ascending he turned to study the terrified girls.
He wanted to stay and talk. But he’d been ordered to perform his tasks and get out. Rose willed himself to ascend the rungs. He returned to the house and set the full toilet bag on the floor in the shower, ignoring it through three sets of curls and two hundred crunches.
Then he was back in the bathroom, peering into the bag, fascinated by all things female.
