Chapter 6

Darkness shielded Lincoln Steele as he sat in his pickup truck surveilling Jake’s house. There were no streetlights outside of town, and the thick clouds that seemed to always blanket Mississippi hid the moon.

For the third straight night, Jake went into town, most likely to the bar at the Old South Inn. He always left the house lights on with the curtains drawn, but there wasn’t any movement. No one else came or left. Steele would search the house and, if it didn’t produce a lead, he’d take a more drastic action. Interrogate Jake using the skills acquired during his years in the military. Not the Geneva convention ones, the covert Special Ops ones. But what if Jake was no more than a racist? That type of interrogation was reserved for really bad people. And what would he do with Jake when done?

In Lincoln Steele’s life, there were no black and white answers.

Steele switched off the interior light before opening the pickup truck door. Jake’s house was outside of town, surrounded by tall trees. Neighbors were a long way off. Out of sight. Steele looked right and left anyway before dashing to the house in a crouch. He waited, hugging the side of the small building. There was no sound other than crickets. A lot of them.

He walked the perimeter of the one-level house. All the windows were covered. There was one door in the front and one in the back, both with redwood porches. No other doors. No access to a basement. Molly’s son wasn’t there.

In the dark, Steele had to avoid the junk in the backyard. A worn truck tire leaned on another. Two car bucket seats lay on their sides. When Steele had passed the back porch, he stepped on the wooden handle of a shovel. Near it was a rusty rake with the prongs up. Good thing he hadn’t stepped on that.

After circling the house, Steele climbed the three steps to the front porch. The redwood deck, in need of stain, was splintered and spotted with black mold. The blue paint on the side of the house was flaking. He pressed his ear to the door. Nothing. Steele reached into his pocket for his lock-picking tools but placed his hand on the door handle instead and pressed the lever down with his thumb. It was unlocked. He inched the door open.

Creak.

Steele froze with the air from his last breath caught inside his lungs. He waited. No sound so he released the air and pushed the door open and stepped inside. The front of the house contained a kitchen and dinette, with a living room beyond them the width of the two small rooms. Unlike the outside, everything was well-kept, neat and clean. No dishes piled in the sink. Everything in its place. Immaculate. Jake worked all day and hung out in the bar at night. When did he have time to clean? He didn’t have time to take care of the outside.

Steele opened and closed kitchen drawers and cabinets. There was nothing you wouldn’t expect in a kitchen. He stepped lightly as he continued into the living room. Nothing out of the ordinary there other than a neatly folded blanket on the floor in the back corner with a pillow on top. For a dog? Steele’s ears perked. Where’s the dog?

To the left was a small room with a washing machine and dryer. On the right, a hallway with two doors, one on each side. Steele snuck to the first one, the one on the right. A full bathroom. He took a few more steps down the hall and peeked into the last room. He jerked his head back.

Steele stood outside the bedroom with his back against the wall. A woman lay on the bed, on her side facing away from Steele. The cover pulled up over her shoulder. Her long blonde hair spilled onto the pillow. A young black woman was also inside the bedroom. She wore a black dress with the skirt part frilly and sticking out like a ballerina’s tutu. And almost as short. A metal collar was around her neck. Her back was to Steele as she dusted the furniture.

So, Jake had a maid. That explained the tidiness of the inside of the house. Why hadn’t Steele seen her come and go during his surveillance? Who was the blonde woman? Jake had told him he had no family.

Hunched over, Steele leaned around the door jamb. His nose almost collided with the black woman’s. She shrieked and jumped back, dropping the feather duster.

“Tilda, quiet,” the woman in the bed said.

“But, missus--”

“Please, not now. I’m hurting all over. Go clean somewhere else.”

Steele held his index finger vertically in front of his lips and motioned with his other hand for the black woman to come to him. She shook her head. He motioned again. She took a step back and shook her head harder.

Steele shrugged, waved goodbye, and ducked into the hall out of sight. He waited, listening for any movement. He heard the rustle of her frilly dress. Her head peeked around the doorway. Steele clamped a hand over her mouth and wrapped his other arm around her waist. Balancing her on his hip, he carried her down the hallway, the stiff tutu part of her dress pointing to the floor and ceiling, her legs kicking.

In the kitchen, Steele whispered in her ear, “I’m here to help you.”

Tilda’s eyes opened wide.

“Are you here against your will?”

She stared at him, her body trembling.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” Steele said. “I’m going to take you out of here.”

Tilda shook her head frantically. When Steele headed toward the front door, she squirmed in his grasp, her legs kicking, her hands pulling at his forearm. When he neared the front door, a muffled scream came from behind his hand and she shook her head harder. Squirmed harder. Kicked harder.

Steele lowered her to the floor and used his hand over her mouth to press her head to his body while he opened the door. She tried to worm out of his grasp, but he was too strong. With the door open, he scooped her up and carried her outside. Her body stiffened. Steele shut the door behind him and leaned down, placing his face right in front of hers, so close he felt his breath on the back of his hand.

“Don’t be afraid,” he said, “I’m not going to hurt you.”

Steele slid his hand off her mouth. Her lips trembled. Her wide eyes locked on his. Filled with panic.

“You’re safe now,” Steele said. “Let’s go somewhere where we can talk.”

Steele grasped her hand and started walking. She yanked her hand free and turned to the door. Steele reached around her, cupped a hand over her mouth, and lifted her up once again by the waist. He climbed down the porch steps. Tilda screamed into his hand. He felt a jolt. A tingling. Like her body had turned into an electric eel. Another one.

Zzp. Zzp. Zzp.

Tilda screamed into his hand. Her breath hot. Her body squirming. Legs kicking. Steele stepped back onto the porch. The jolts stopped. Tilda went limp in his arms. Silent. Eyes closed. He sat her on the rotting redwood. The tutu part of her dress stuck out all around her like a clown’s collar. Steele patted her cheek. Her eyes fluttered open.

“What happened?” Steele asked.

Tilda stared at him. Eyes confused, teary. She tapped the metal collar around her neck with her fingertips and then her arm fell to her side.

“You can’t leave, can you?” Steele asked.

Tilda lowered her eyes and shook her head. A single tear rolled down her right cheek.

Steele studied the collar. “Let me get this lock open.”

Steele took his key ring out of his pocket and brought the two rods to the lock. Tilda jerked her head back.

“Trust me,” Steele said. “I’ll take this off.”

Tilda stared at him and leaned forward, tilting her head to the side with her chin raised.

The keyhole was round with grooves. Not a typical lock. Steele fiddled with it while Tilda’s crossed eyes watched him.

Steele lowered his hands. “Can’t do it. It’s really sophisticated. Need the key. Does the blonde woman have it?”

“No.”

“Who is she?”

“Mastuh’s wife.”

“Jake.”

Tilda nodded.

“Do you know where the transmitter is?”

“What’s that?”

“It’s what sends the electrical charge.”

A tear rolled down her other cheek. She hung her head and shook it. Steele leaned closer to inspect the collar. Tilda pulled back.

“Who are you?” she asked.

“Do you know Annamae Miller?” Tilda shook her head. “She’s a girl like you. She’s gone missing and I’m looking for her.”

“Like me? A black girl?”

“Yes.”

“From here?”

“Yes. Are you?”

“No. Some guy drugged me and when I woke up I was in this town, wherever it is, and had this damn collar on. He did stuff to me and when I tried to make him stop he hurt me. I couldn’t escape and he kept hurting me so I finally gave up. I stopped fighting and did what I was told.”

She rubbed both eyes with the meaty part of her palms. “Then one day he traded with me to Mastuh Jake.”

“What was the other guy’s name? The one who kidnapped you.”

“He made me call him Mastuh Bufford.”

“Did you wear the collar at his house, too?”

“Yes. I think it was a different one, though.”

“Hmm, each collar probably matches the frequency of a transmitter.” Steele looked at the woman’s long, bare legs. “Is this how Bufford had you dress?”

The woman slapped the short, tutu-like skirt down and pressed it to her thighs. “No. Mastuh Jake gave me this to wear. I wore a long dress at Mastuh Bufford’s. All the way to my ankles. He said it was what slaves wore.”

“Do you ever leave the house?”

Tilda tapped the collar with two fingers and shook her head. “I live here. I sleep on the floor and eat by myself.”

“Are you ever in the house alone?”

“Not here. Missus is almost always here. I was left alone in Mastuh Bufford’s house, but the collar kept me there. And sometimes he chained me up.”

Tilda winced and shifted onto her left hip. She leaned over even more.

“What’s the matter?” Steele asked.

“Nothing.”

“Something’s wrong. Tell me.”

“Nothing. I just...” The young black woman lowered her eyes. “I got a splinter, that’s all.”

“I’ll take it out. Where is it?”

“Forget it. It’s this damn porch.”

Steele looked at the dry wood and back at Tilda. He gave her a half smile. “Oh. I guess I shouldn’t have sat you down with that short dress on. My bad.”

“It’s not your fault.”

“Let me take the splinter out. They can be a real pain in the ass.”

Tilda’s eyes opened wide and her hand flew to cover her gaping mouth. That caused her to sit on her butt again. She grimaced and rolled back onto her hip, slapping her left hand onto the porch. She jerked that hand up and shook it.