Chapter 9

Steele drove to the Old South Inn and backed his pickup truck in front of his room. He showered and changed before removing his Glock from the hidden compartment in his suitcase and tucking it into the front of his pants under his shirt. As he strolled toward the inn’s main entrance, a few cars whizzed by on the road, but the parking lot was quiet. He glanced through the window into the bar, but it was closed that time of day and empty. He continued on to the lobby.

Bufford was where he always was, behind the counter with his feet up watching television. He looked at Steele and smiled.

“Hey, buddy,” Bufford said, “what can I do for you?”

“I have a complaint.”

Bufford’s feet dropped to the floor as he sat up. “What?”

“It’s that nigger chambermaid.”

“She didn’t clean your room?”

“She didn’t blow me.”

Bufford jumped to his feet. “Where the fuck is that nigger?”

“In my room.”

“How do you know she’s still there?”

Steele looked down and shuffled his feet. “Well, I sort of hit her and knocked her out.”

Bufford chuckled. “Serves the nigger right. I’ll whip her black ass ‘til it bleeds.”

Reaching under the counter, Bufford’s hand reappeared holding a leather whip with multiple tentacles. He slapped the counter with it. The cracking noise filled the lobby.

Bufford laughed again. “After she blows both of us, that is.”

Bufford came out from behind the counter with the whip tucked under his arm. As he passed Steele, he patted his shoulder. “Let’s go.”

The two went to Steele’s room where Bufford waited for him to open the door. As soon as he did, Bufford barged in. He skidded to a stop and looked around.

“Guess you didn’t hit her as hard as--”

Steele slugged Bufford on the back of his head with his Glock. He dropped to the floor. Steele rushed to his suitcase and retrieved the knife from the hidden compartment. He rolled Bufford onto his belly and sliced two of the whip’s tentacles off, tying Bufford’s wrists behind his back with one and his ankles with the other.

Steele pulled Bufford’s wallet out of his back pocket and found his driver’s license. After reading the address, he stuffed it back in. The edge of a white hanky stuck out of his other back pocket. Steele pulled it out and, with a hand on Bufford’s forehead, pulled his head back. He stuffed the hanky into Bufford’s mouth. Steele cut a third tentacle from the whip and tied it around Bufford’s head, between his lips, securing the hanky.

Steele slid the knife into its leather sheath and tucked it into the waistband at the back of his pants. He slung Bufford onto his shoulder and peeked outside, looking both ways. No one was there so he rushed up to the back of his pickup and hurled Bufford into the truck’s bed.

Steele drove to Bufford’s house. Like Jake’s house, once you were outside of town there weren’t neighbors. It probably came in handy for the lives they had led, but it worked out well for Steele. He parked his pickup in the gravel driveway and got out. In comparison to Jake’s, the house was huge.

Steele fished the house key out of Bufford’s pocket, slung him onto his shoulder, and carried him into the house where he dumped him onto the wood floor in the living room. The back of Bufford’s head banged on the floor, probably leaving a second bump. Steele removed the leather sheath from the back of his pants and slid the knife out. He sliced the binding around Bufford’s head and pulled the hanky from his mouth. He sat in the cushy chair and flipped the knife in the air, catching it by the handle each time.

Bufford opened his eyes, groaned, and squirmed on the floor, pulling on the bindings. He stopped to look around. Spotting Steele, Bufford wriggled like an eel until he was on his side facing Steele.

“What the fuck are you doing?” Bufford asked. “Untie me!”

Steele patted the flat part of the knife’s blade on his palm. “I want answers.”

“What kind of answers?” Bufford struggled to break free. He settled down. “Untie me.”

“When I get my answers.”

“What do you want to know?”

“Where’s Molly’s son?”

“Molly? Who the fuck is Molly?”

“The chambermaid at the inn.”

“Didn’t know she had a son.”

Steele whipped the knife at Bufford’s head. It quivered in the floor three inches from his nose. Bufford jerked his head back.

“What the fuck!” Bufford said.

Steele leaned forward and pulled the knife out of the floor. He sat back down.

“Molly’s son,” Steele said, “where is he?”

“What’s that got to do with you?”

“That’s my business.”

“I have no idea. How the hell would I know?”

Steele threw the knife again. It stuck into the floor an inch from Bufford’s eyes. Bufford rolled away from it.

“Are you crazy?” Bufford yelled.

Steele got up and yanked the knife out of the floor. He sat back down and strummed his thumb over the point. “Where is he?”

“I don’t know.”

Steele threw it again. This time it brushed Bufford’s cheek as it stuck into the floor. Bufford gasped and rolled away from it.

“Next time,” Steele said as he retrieved the knife, “there’ll be blood.”

“My brother’s the police chief. You better stop now.”

“Let me worry about your brother.”

“You don’t know Clyde. Let me go and I’ll forget this ever happened.”

“Molly’s son. Where is he?”

Bufford struggled against the bindings, pulling at the ones around his wrists, twisting his hands. He rolled onto his back and kicked his tied feet. Steele raised his hand and threw the knife. Bufford froze. His eyes opened wide. The knife stuck in the floor between his legs. Between thighs only a few inches apart. He dug his chin into his chest and saw the knife sticking up not far from his groin.

“Downstairs!” he shouted.

“Here?”

“Yes, here! Take him! Take him and leave!”

Was Bufford stupid enough to keep a kidnapped child in his own home? Then again, his brother was the police chief. Look what happened to the Millers when they reported their daughter missing.

“Where’s the basement?” Steele asked.

“It’s a bomb shelter. Under the house. Slide the rug under the card table in the back room. There’s a trap door. He’s down there.”

Steele wiggled the knife out of the floor. It had gone in further this time. Bufford lay still as a corpse, his eyes locked on Steele’s hand and the knife. Steele rolled him onto his belly and tugged the bindings. Both his hands and feet were secure. The leather might stretch a bit, but not break.

Steele went to the back room and located the trap door. He lifted it and let it drop onto the floor. Wooden stairs led down to the lighted room. A television was on. Sounded like cartoons. He dropped to his hands and knees and peered inside. It was large and equipped with a kitchen and bathroom. Shelves of canned food and water filled one wall. Another wall had furniture and the television. A black girl huddled in the corner, her back to him, smothering a black boy in her clutches. She had three stiff pigtails sticking out from her head. And a metal collar around her neck.

Steele climbed down the stairs. The girl hunched over more, trembling with each squeak of a step. The boy wriggled in her grasp until he could peek under her arm. His big, wondering eyes locked on Steele.

“I won’t hurt you,” Steele said.

The girl spun around. Her eyes wide. “Uncle Linc!”

Steele’s jaw dropped. Not something that happened to him. She jumped to her feet and ran to Steele, wrapping her arms around him with her cheek pressed to his chest.

“Annamae,” Steele said, patting her back.

“Thank god. I never gave up hope. Is my father with you?”

The room remained silent. The seconds felt like minutes. Hours. Annamae tilted her head back and stared up at Steele. Her eyes as large and wondering as the boy’s.

“No, he’s not here,” Steele said. “I’ll take you home.”

She buried her face in his chest again. “Thank you! Thank you so much!” Then she pulled back with tears rolling down her cheeks.

“What’s the matter?” Steele asked.

“I can’t leave.”

“We’ll take the boy, too. He’s Molly’s son, right?”

She nodded. “That’s not why I can’t leave.”

Steele reached into his pocket and took out the funny shaped key. Holding it up, he said, “Let’s try this.”

Annamae jumped back and tilted her head with her chin up. Steele spun the collar until finding the hole and inserted the key. He turned it. The lock clicked and the collar split open. Steele took it off.

Annamae wrapped her fingers around her neck. “I’m finally free.”

“Do you have anything here you need to take?” Steele asked.

“Nothing. I just wanna go home.”

“Then let’s go.”

Annamae climbed the stairs, holding her long dress up to her knees so as not to trip. Steele was right behind her, the boy held in one arm and the collar in his hand. At the top, they walked toward the front of house. Annamae shrieked. She turned and ran. Steele snagged her around the waist with his free arm. Her feet left the floor.

“You don’t have to be afraid of him anymore,” Steele said.

Steele released Annamae. She waited. When Steele walked to the living room, she was right behind him, a hand pressed to his lower back. Bufford was squirming on his belly, pulling at his hands and kicking his feet. He stopped when they entered.