The Trees Beyond the Grass (A Cole Mouzon Thriller) (18 page)

CHAPTER 52

WALKING IN, THE
space was clean, old wood floors and walls with a light coat of white paint. The mallard greens and golds suggested the decoration had remained relatively the same since the 70s. Pictures—almost too many pictures—filled the walls, likely prized moments with all of MeMe’s family.

“Come’n.” She shouted from the single side bedroom directly behind a very small galley kitchen closest to the door. Slowly she cracked open the door. Cole glowed as the black, wrinkled woman was revealed. “Wehl, don’t jus’ stan’ der, gib MeMe a hug.” Cole happily obliged, catching MeMe as she squeezed his upper waist. MeMe was a thick, solid woman, almost as tall as Cole, and wider. She had a slight limp that Cole did not recall.

Her arms tight around him, Cole spoke into her ear. “I’m here to collect that slice of banana cake you promised me.”

“I don’t have no ‘nanna cake, but I got peach cobbla if ya wan’ some.” She released and flashed a broad smile.

“No, no, I was just kidding. I’m here to see you, not let you get me fat all over again.” Under MeMe’s care Cole had been what the rest of the world called fat, but MeMe called ‘healthy.’ It wasn’t until her care stopped at age thirteen that he slimmed down and discovered a gym.

Looking him up and down, she said, “Bebe boy Mouzon.” MeMe was in awe of her visitor. “Look at dem green yey. Hmm, lub dem yey…Where my manner, seddown, seddown.” She motioned him to a small couch in the far corner of the room.

MeMe was Gullah, and Cole’s ears strained to remember how to understand the throaty, African-English language he had grown up with, but hadn’t heard in almost two decades. Outsiders foolishly equated the language with ignorance, a lack of education. Cole experienced the same prejudice from his own accent, though certainly to a lesser degree. Yet, Granny was Geechee, a white speaker of Gullah, and had taught him early that the Gullah could match wits with anyone.
You didn’t get anything over on a Gullah woman, especially MeMe
. Those smarts had obviously come to fruition in locating him in the marsh.

“You look good, real good boy. What chu been doin’?” MeMe moved over to a green Lazy Boy that had seen its days and some.

“I’m a lawyer now, in Denver; moved out there a couple years ago from Atlanta.”

Cocking her head to get a view, she said, “I don’t see no ring, you married, got bebes of your own?”

“No, ma’am. Single, no childs, yet.” Cole could hear is own accent getting thick on the tongue when he said ‘childs’, fighting to be echoed because it was hearing a kindred voice.

After only a few minutes of catching up, MeMe leaned in and touched Cole’s knee. “Smattah, bebe?” Her large, leathery dark hand felt warm and comforting.

Cole had been paying attention to their banter but his thoughts had drifted off to his immediate concerns while he spoke. Caught, he filled her in on learning about his kidnapping as a child and that now it appeared someone had returned to complete the task. MeMe hesitantly told him what she knew of the event.

“Dey tol’ me, ‘somebody gone and stole the bebe boy Mouzon.’ A tief. Cole, your grand-momma was bad somethin’ horrible, ill about it she was. She couldn’t function. My people had been on tiss land almost as long as yours and if someone had you, we would find’m. So, I get me boys to go look. T’ree days yous had been gone. ‘De police tried, but couldn’t find you. ‘Dem boys check every crik and maa’sh they knew. Two day later, dat’s where they foun’ you. Side of the ol’ school. ‘Dem police had look t’reetime dere. Dem boys foun’ you, dough, under some palmetto tree in deh maa’sh. I was so thankful, t’engk’gawd!” She raised her hands in reverence to the Lord.

“Your momma was good people, Cole. Real good. And, boy did she love her some bebe Cole. You was attach to her hip like em’ oyster. When you was born, she just stopped all she doin’ and decided to be a good mother. It be horrible what happen’ to her, just horrible. ‘Dem boys tell me she holdin’ you, even dead, watching over you and em’ boy. Her love is in you, Cole. And with it, her strength. ‘Dat man may taken her life, but not the strength she gave to you.”

COLE REFLECTED ON
MeMe’s words. He had never thought about his mother’s death much. He was too young when it happened; it impacted him as much as reading a sad story in a book, in a detached way. He had been told she was lost in a car accident. But now, that connection was real, with the reality of the truth of what happened; the emotions welled up in his face, forcing him to isolate them so that he could function and push forward.

“‘Dey never foun’ de man, I wonder…wonder where he go. T’ief’n chill’un like ‘dat. An, that t’ing on yah back.” MeMe looked behind Cole, toward his hip and the brand she clearly recalled being left by whoever had taken him those years ago. Her head shook as she returned to face him. “Had to be a buckruh, (
white man
) cuz uh know no black folk do such a ‘ting.”

Cole laughed and agreed. Yes, it was likely a white man back then. Everything so far matched the stereotype, even if the stereotype was usually wrong. Cole had learned as a public defender that plenty of studies had gone to this issue, all coming up with their own theories. The most commonly accepted was that because serial killing is usually carried out by males, and white males outnumber black or Hispanic males by almost seven to one, there was roughly a seven to one chance a serial murderer was white.

Leaning in, Cole asked, “MeMe, did I say anything? Did I talk about what happened?” MeMe sat back in her plastic-covered lounge chair as if she were deciding if she should speak. “Cole, digging around in da’ past is dirty business. Bess leave t’ings as they are.”

“MeMe, someone took me all those years ago and now, well…it looks like someone is back. If there is something in the past I need to know about to save my future, please tell me.” The softness of her face dissolved into a fortified mask of anger, daring the world to attack something that she cared for, loved.

With a stern voice, MeMe barked, “Jeffery, go get Penney.” Jeffery had been sitting quietly on the floor against the door the entire conversation, absorbing it like a sponge. He quickly got up and ran out the door, leaving MeMe and Cole alone in the dark home. Silence crept in while they waited.

Several minutes later, Cole could hear the heavy steps of Jeffery on the front porch and behind him a second, lighter pair. The door opened to reveal a woman in a dirty purple t-shirt and jeans. In her hand was a book bag that had weathered too many hurricanes. Jeffery was out of breath as he introduced to Penney. She was soft-spoken, smaller than MeMe and probably several decades younger. When MeMe began to talk her authority was recognized by everyone in the room, who all lowered their heads in deference.

“Penney, Mister Cole has come with questions ‘dat shouldn’t be answered. But, it seems ‘dey muss if he to get ‘dis evil after him now.”

“I understand. Give me your hands, boy. Jeffery, get the lights.” The room went pitch dark, with only a gap of light streaking under the door as Cole extended his hands. Slowly, a chant exited Penney’s mouth. It was hoodoo, the nicer, kinder sister of voodoo practiced by the Gullah along the coast. Cole had grown up around it with, MeMe saying random chants and applying herbs to his cuts when he was little. A blend of Christianity, herbalism, and folk magic, its roots were in the slave times, when medical care for slaves was rare at best.

Penney was obviously a root worker, or conjurer of these spells, each with their own color. White for protection, red for love, green for money, purple for success, and black to harm. As Penney chanted, Cole listened to her lighter accent and mentally joked that he needed to order a white and a black for now, though green or purple where attractive options, too.
Red will have to wait.

“Pay attention, boy!” Penney had caught Cole’s drifting thoughts and knocked him in the head with his own hand to snap him out of it. He had learned long ago to respect people’s religions and practices, but he felt this was getting him nowhere.

Herbal smoke filled his nostrils just as he was about to protest. “Breath deep, breath real deep.” Cole wasn’t a smoker and the smoke burned as he inhaled. Small flecks of light slowly started to burst into his eyes and he felt dizzy. His head felt like it was being weighed down by a soft, heavy pillow. He closed his eyes to try and focus, but it wasn’t working. His mind went deeper, until all was black and silent.

CHAPTER 53

IT WAS UNCLEAR
how long he was out before Cole kicked as he woke, still fighting off his captor in the marsh. He was surrounded by MeMe and the others when he opened his eyes. “I saw!”

“What you see, boy, come’on now and tell us.” MeMe’s words were rushed.

Cole was still groggy as he spoke. “There’s a mark, a tattoo or something on his forearm. Like a bird, maybe like a crow’s head?” The look on MeMe’s and Penney’s faces read fear and surprise. “Crow you say, dat’s a bad omen, Cole. Carry death it does. Did you see anyt’ing else, did you see ‘ehm?”

Slowly shaking his head and pushing himself up, Cole responded. “No, ma’am, just his arm still. But that’s more than I have ever seen.” The image came with fear and excitement. Perhaps Cole was getting closure to his childhood capture. But, he knew from the files and his meeting with Leas that the killer was a woman.
Who is the woman?

“Here, eat some bennie wafers, you need the energy.” Jeffery was lifting Cole up from behind as MeMe shoved a plate of thin caramel-colored wafers dotted with sesame seeds into his hands. Cole knew the offer was special.

Sesame seeds, or bennie seeds as old Charlestonians called them, were said to have been so prized by the Nigerian and Angolan slaves that they buried the seeds in their hair when captured and brought them to Charleston to grow. Cole had eaten more than his share of the cookies every time his family went to his Granny’s home. Taking a bite, he felt the sugar do its quick work.

MeMe clapped her hands on her knees and sat back in her Lazy Boy. “Ha, ‘dis remind me of when we foun’ you. You was rabbish, I rememb’r that. ‘Bout ate me out of house and home, I tell ya.” MeMe’s kinder spirit was back.

“Never seen someone eat so many bennie wafers, as you.” MeMe laughed in memory. “
E teet da dig e grave.” (You were overeating.)
“Like a gay’da, you were.”

Smiling back at her, he thought ‘God, I loved this woman.’ Being reconnected to her, he missed her even more. She had been a second mother to Cole and but for her, he might have died in the marsh.

Half an hour later, Cole bid his farewells to MeMe so she could get to some event at the center.

“Tek’care, bebe.
Mus tek cyear a de root fa heal de tree.”
He recalled that she said that old Gullah proverb often when he was a child. ‘Take care of the roots in order to heal the tree.’
Indeed.
It seemed perfect for the situation; if he was to ever survive this, he would have to deal with his childhood and being marked for death. MeMe’s confidence that all would be okay helped. She made Cole promise to write, to let her know of his travels once this was all over. He accepted the promise in hope that he could fulfill it many times.

CHAPTER 54

BY THREE COLE
had still not heard from Jackie about what she had discovered on the Calhoun kid. He texted and then headed to Melvin’s Bar-B-Q off Highway 17, to get some something to eat. It took only two sentences for the weathered waitress with a white apron to pour out several ‘darlings,’ ‘su'gas,’ and 'babies' while delivering his drink. “I’ll have a coke, ma’am.”

“Of course baby, what kind?”

“Sprite, please.”

“Sprite comin’ right up, su’ga.”

Cole missed Melvin’s. There was nothing like it in Denver. Like most things in the South, bar-b-que caused feuding as much as land or family, and Melvin’s was no exception. Melvin Bessinger was the older brother of Maurice Bessinger and together they had cornered the market on all things mustard sauce, dividing between them the Palmetto State; Melvin taking the lowcountry and Maurice taking the other three-fourths of the state.

Maurice’s in Columbia was always the larger franchise. But that all changed when he decided to stand for the Confederate flag, hoisting massive versions over every restaurant he owned during the height of the ‘great flag debate’ over placement of the flag above the state capital building. Cole’s family, like most of Charleston, put their backs behind the politically correct, or more likely politically silent, Melvin’s and had Maurice’s sauces removed from every Pig and Bi-Lo in the lowcountry to make room for Melvin’s sauce. But the blacks still revolted, believing that Melvin was bottling Maurice’s sauce to keep it on the shelf. That’s when a black minister, James Johnson, inserted himself into the dispute, at the request of Melvin, and brokered a deal no less contentious than a Middle-East treaty, holding a press conference to assure all that he had witnessed the bottling operations of Melvin’s and that all could rest assured that Melvin’s sauce was indeed different and in no way associated with Maurice’s, causing the balance of tangy sauce power to shift and never truly be regained by the little brother.

A few minutes later the waitress returned with his drink and a red plastic basket overflowing with thick-cut fries and a hamburger bun stuffed full of mustard-yellow slathered shredded pork. One bite and Cole felt revived from the heat outside. The spicy mustard and vinegar-based sauce oozed out the corner of his mouth, and he caught it with his tongue before it dripped onto his tan linen shorts. He learned in a ‘geography of bar-b-que’ class at the University of South Carolina that the state was divided into four distinct bar-b-que sauce regions, with Charleston split between the vinegar sauce of North Carolina and the more local mustard-vinegar sauce. To him, bar-b-que was one of the two. The other, tomato and ketchup sauces were just too sweet and were unknown to him until he went to college. Popping a fat garlic-salted fry into his mouth, his longing for Southern things washed over him. He was home.

At a quarter till four Jackie finally called. “Hey, sorry for the delay. This place is crazy with all this going on. My chief has decided I can just communicate with you seeing as how the FBI is already involved and…well, you’re my brother and all. I located that Calhoun guy. Cole… He’s dead.” There was silence as Cole processed the information.

“He committed suicide. It looks like he jumped off the old bridge like ten years back. From what I know so far he was pretty messed up after you and he were found and never really got over it. Sorry bro.”

For the first time since learning of his kidnapping he was thankful for the secret his family had kept from him…that his mind had blacked out.
That could have been me.

“Does he have any family? Maybe they know something.”

“Already on it. Seems he had a brother. He’s a professor or something over at the College of Charleston. Another officer here already talked to him and set up a meeting this evening. Captain was hesitant, but has agreed that you can attend. You can thank your buddy Leas for that.”

Agent Leas wasn’t his buddy, but Cole was thankful, nonetheless. Cole wanted to understand this craziness that he had just been clued in on and that meant talking to everyone that had anything to do with it, or knew of it.

Slurping down the last bit of his Sprite, Cole asked, “When and where, sis?”

“We’re to meet him at the college. Meet me at the house, say six, and we can ride over together. Hanna ‘the miracle worker babysitter’ is at the house with Billy and says she can stay on till later if I drop off some dinner. God, I love her.”

Cole interrupted, “Well, I’m at Melvin’s if you want me to grab their dinner and then head over there.”

“Perfect! Anyway, I need to run. You being in town has kicked up a shit storm here and I need to get back to work if you are ever going to pay me back.”

Cole laughed. “Okay sis, see you in a bit.”