'They won't be happy to see us, but you won't need the gun,' Anthony said, turning to us. 'They probably know we're coming. They watch the local roads. Christine Johnson might not be here now, if she was even here at all. I knew you would want to check for yourself.'
I didn't say anything. I couldn't. My mouth felt incredibly dry and my mind was a blank. We were still involved with The Four Horsemen, weren't we? Was this Shafer's play? Had he known we'd eventually find this place in the hills? Had he set a final trap for us?
We arrived at an old green house with tattered white cloth over the windows and a burlap bag for a front door. Four men immediately came outside, all of them sporting dreadlocks.
They walked toward us, their mouths set hard, their eyes blazing with distrust. Sampson and I were used to the look from the streets of Washington.
Two of the men carried heavy field machetes. The other two wore floppy shirts, and I knew they were armed beneath the loose-fitting clothes.
'Just turn around, go back, mon,' one of them shouted loudly at us. 'Get out of here while you can.'
?CHAPTER One Hundred and Twenty-Two
'No!'
Detective Anthony got out of the car with both hands held high. So did Sampson, Jones and I.
There was the beat of traditional drums coming from the woods directly behind the main house. A pair of lounging dogs raised their lazy heads to look at us, and barked a few times. My heart was thundering faster now.
I didn't like the way this was going.
Another one of the men called to us, 'I and I would like you to leave.'
I recognized the phrase of speech. The double pronoun represented the speaker and God, who live together in each person.
'Patrick Moss is in jail. I'm Detective Anthony from Kingston. This is Detective Sampson and Detective Cross. You have a woman here. You call her Beatitude.'
Beatitude? Could it be Christine?
One of the men with a machete hanging from one hand glared and spoke to Anthony. 'Galang 'bout yuh business. Lef me nuh. Nah woman here. Nah woman.'
'This is my business and we won't leave you alone.' I said, surprising the man that I understood his dialect. But I know Rastaman from DC.
'Nah woman here. Nah American.' the man repeated angrily, looking directly at me.
Andrew Jones spoke up. 'We want the American woman, then we'll leave. Your friend Patrick Moss will be home by tonight. You can deal with him in your own way.'
'Nah American woman here.' The original speaker spat defiantly on the ground. 'Turn around, go back.'
'You know James Whitehead? You know Shafer?' Jones said.
They didn't deny it. I doubted we'd get anymore from them than that.
'I love her,' I told them. 'I can't leave. Her name is Christine.'
My mouth was still dry and I couldn't breathe very well. 'She was kidnapped a year ago. We know she was brought here.'
Sampson took out his Glock and held it loosely at his side. He stared at the four men, who continued to glare back at us. I touched the handle of my gun, still in its holster. I didn't want a gunfight.
'We can cause you a whole lot of trouble,' Sampson said, in a low, rumbling voice. 'You won't believe how much trouble is coming your way.'
Finally, I just walked forward on a worn path through the tall grass. I passed by the men, lightly brushing against one of them.
No one tried to stop me. I could smell ganja and sweat on their work clothes. Tension was building up inside me.
Sampson followed me, no more than a step or two behind. 'I'm watching them,' he said. 'Nobody's doing anything yet.'
'Doesn't matter.' I said. 'I have to see if she's here.'
?CHAPTER One Hundred and Twenty-Three
An older woman with long and wildly frazzled gray-and-white hair stepped out of the front door as I reached the scarred, unpainted steps. Her eyes were ringed with redness.
'Come with me,' she sighed. 'Come along. You nah need no weapon.'
For the first time in many months I allowed myself to feel the tiniest flash of hope. I didn't have any reason to, just the rumor that a woman had been kept here against her will.
Beatitude? Something to do with blessedness and happiness? Could it be Christine?
The old woman walked unsteadily around the house and through light bushes, trees, and ferns out back. About sixty or seventy yards into thickening woods she came to half-a-dozen small shacks, and she stopped. The shacks were made of wood, bamboo, and corrugated metal.
She walked forward again and stopped at the next-to-last shack in the group.
She took out a key attached to a leather strap around her waist. She then inserted the key and jiggled it.
