Rage (46 page)

“Oh,
dear,” said Wascomb. “I’m getting ahead of myself, this has all been
so . . .” From a pocket of the cardigan he pulled two sheets of
paper folded to postcard size.

Milo
unfolded them, read, jutted his lower jaw. “Where’d you find this, sir?”

“When
I looked around the house, I peeked into the bedroom and saw it on the desk.”
Wascomb licked his lips. “I noticed it because it lay in the center of the
desk, atop a piece of blotting paper. As if she wanted me to see it.”

“Was
it folded?”

“No,
flat. It really seemed as if she’d intended for me to read it.”

“Anything
else on the desk?”

“Pens,
pencils,” said Wascomb. “And a strongbox. The type banks use for safety
deposit. That, of course, I didn’t touch.”

Milo
handed the papers to me. Two pages of neat, forward-slanting cursive.

The Flock: Instructions for Daily Care

1.
Patricia: Lactose-sensitive
(
soy
milk in the fridge
).
Needs special help with reading and penmanship.

2.
Gloria: Ritalin 10 mg. before breakfast, 10 mg. before dinner, self-esteem
issues, doing well in all remedial areas but needs a lot of explicit verbal
encouragement.

3.
Amber: Ritalin 15 mg. before breakfast, 10 mg. before dinner, Allegra 180 mg.
as needed for hay fever, penicillin allergy, shellfish allergy, doesn’t like
meat but should be encouraged to eat some chicken; math, reading,
penmanship . . .

Milo
said, “Looks like she’s been preparing to be gone for a while.”

Wascomb
said, “Cherish was always an organized student. If she did leave for an
extended period, I’m sure her reason was sound.”

“Such
as?”

“I
couldn’t tell you, Lieutenant. But I do have the utmost respect for her.”

“As
opposed to Drew.”

Wascomb’s
jaw set. “I’m sure the doctor has told you of our problems with Drew.”

“He’s
gone, too,” said Milo.

“They
are husband and wife.”

“You
think they left together.”

“I
don’t know what to think, sir,” said Wascomb.

“When
Cherish called she mentioned nothing about going away, Reverend?”

“No—
Is it lieutenant? No, she didn’t, Lieutenant. I fully expected her to be here
when I arrived. If Cherish didn’t call
you,
sir, may I ask why you’re
here?”

“Protecting
and serving, Reverend.”

“I
see,” said Wascomb. “Will you be needing me any further? I’d be happy to pledge
Fulton’s support for the children, in the short term. However— ”

“Could
you stick around a bit?” said Milo. “Show me that strongbox?”

“It’s
right on the desk, Lieutenant. I should be getting back to Mrs. Wascomb.”

Milo’s
hand alit on Wascomb’s sleeve. “Stay for a short while, Reverend.”

Wascomb
smoothed down his hair to no effect. “Of course.”

“Appreciate
it, sir. Now let’s tend to the flock.”

The
interior of the cube was twelve feet square, with a red cement floor and block
walls painted a pinkish beige. Three wood-frame double bunks were set up
against the sidewalls, two on the left, one on the right. A white fiberglass
booth in the far right-hand corner was labeled
toilet.
Flower stickers
decorated the door.

A
sliver of wall space hosted three double-decker dented metal lockers. An
L.A.
Unified School District Surplus
sticker was at the bottom of one,
Practice
Spontaneous Acts of Kindness
on another.

The
solitary window was set into the back wall, screened and bolted. The pane was
wide enough to let in a funnel of diffuse, dusty light. Animal-print curtains
had been parted. The view was the rear wall of the property and the black tar
roofline of a neighbor’s garage.

Beneath
the windowsill sat a squat, six-drawer chest. Stuffed animals shared the top
with tubes and bottles and jars of cosmetics. Off to the side, a stack of
Bibles.

Eight
girls sat on the three bottom bunks, wearing pastel-colored pajamas and fluffy
white socks.

Eight
pairs of teenage eyes took us in. Narrow age-range; my guess was fifteen to
seventeen. Six Hispanic girls, one black, one white.

The
room smelled of hormones and chewing gum and face cream.

Valerie
Quezada sat at the front of the rear left-hand bunk. Fidgeting, rolling her
shoulders, playing with the ends of her long, wavy hair. Two other girls moved
restlessly. The others sat quietly.

Crandall
Wascomb said, “Morning, young ladies. These are the police and they’re very
nice. This gentleman is a police
lieutenant
and he’s here to help you,
both these gentleman want to help you . . .” He flashed us a
helpless look and trailed off.

Milo
said, “Hi, there.”

Valerie
pointed a finger. “You were here already.”

Milo
cued me with a tiny movement of his head.

I
said, “Yes, we were, Valerie.”

“You
know my
name.
” Accusatory.

Some
of the girls tittered.

I
said, “Where’s Cherish, Valerie?”

“Left.”

“When
did she leave?”

“When
it was dark.”

“Around
what time?”

Her
stare told me the question was absurd.

No
clock in the room, no radio, no TV. Light from the window would be the sole
arbiter of time.

The
room was clean— spotless, the cement floor freshly swept. Each of the six bunk
beds was set up identically with two smallish white pillows and a white top
sheet folded over a pink blanket.

Blankets
tucked military-tight.

I
didn’t see Wascomb ordering the girls to make their beds. They had a routine.

I
said, “Anyone else have any idea what time Cherish left?”

A
couple of head shakes. Neatly groomed heads. The girls appeared to be
well-nourished. How often did they leave the property? This room? Were meals
taken in the main house, or eaten here? Did homeschooling extend to occasional
outings? Maybe that’s why no one had answered the phone when I’d called a few
days ago. Or . . .

What
did it do to your sense of reality to inhabit this tight, sterile space?

“Anyone
want to take a guess?” I said.

Valerie
said, “They don’t know nothing. It was me saw her leave. Only.”

I
walked closer to her. More giggles. “Did you talk to her, Valerie?”

Silence.

“Did
she say anything at all?”

Reluctant
nod.

“What
did she say?”

“She
had to go out, someone would take care of us.”

One
of the other girls elbowed her neighbor. Valerie said, “You got a problem?”

“I
ain’t got no problem.” Quick retort, but meek voice.

“You
better not.”

Wascomb
said, “Now, let’s keep everything calm, young ladies.”

Milo
said, “What about Mr. Daney? When did he leave?”

“Drew
left before,” said Valerie.

“Before
Cherish?”

“Yesterday.
She got mad at him.”

“Cherish
did?”

“Uh-huh.”

“What
was she mad about?”

Shrug.

I said,
“How could you tell she was mad?”

“Her
face.” Valerie looked to the other girls for confirmation. Pointed at a
bespectacled girl with thin straight hair. The girl began making squeaky noises
with her tongue against her teeth. Valerie’s glower failed to stop her. My
smile did.

I
said, “So Cherish was mad at Drew.”

Valerie
stomped her foot. “Trish?” Pointing at a pretty, long-legged girl with boyish
hair and a fine-boned face marred by acne.

Short
for “Patricia.”
Lactose-sensitive. Special help with reading and penmanship.

She
didn’t answer.

Valerie
said, “You can tell she’s mad from her face.
Say
that.”

Trish
smiled, dreamy-eyed. Her pajamas were sky blue with white eyelet borders.

“Say
it,” demanded Valerie. “Her
face.
”

Trish
yawned. “She never got pissed at me.”

“Just
at Drew,” I said.

Another
girl said, “He didn’t come home last night, prolly that made her mad.”

I
said, “She didn’t like when he didn’t come home.”

“Nope.”

“Was
that often?”

Shrug.

Valerie
twisted a thick rope of black hair around her finger. Let it uncoil and watched
it drop past her waist.

I
turned back to her. “Was it once a week? Something like that?”

She
gazed up at the mattress inches from her head. Rolled her shoulders and tapped
her fingers and beat out a rhythm with one foot.

“Valerie?”

“Time
to shower,” she said.

“Where
do you shower?”

“The
other place.”

“The
main house?”

“The
other
place.”

“The
building next door.”

“Uh-huh.”

I
tried Trish again. “Did Drew go out a lot?”

“He
was here except when he went out.” To Valerie: “Like when he went out with
you-u.
”
Slowly spreading smile.

Valerie’s
eyes flashed.

Trish
said, “Tell him. You went out all the
time.
That’s why you always
need
to shower.”

Valerie
got up from the bunk and charged her. Trish waved her long arms uselessly. I
got between them, pulled Valerie away. Soft middle but her arms were tight and
her shoulders were granite lumps.

“It’s
like true,” said another girl.

Yet
another opined, “He went out with you all the time, you
gotta
shower.”

Voice
from a bunk across the room: “You get to sleep in the other place.”

“You
get to shower whenever you want.”

“
’Cause you dirty.”

Val
grunted and fought to free herself from my grasp. She was sweating and the
moisture flew off her face and hit mine.

“She
freakin’ out.”

“Like
she always does.”

Trish
said, “He takes you out all the
time
!”

Valerie
let loose a string of obscenities.

Wascomb
shrank back.

Trish
said, “She gets up at night and walks around like a . . . like
a . . . vampire thing. That’s how she saw Cherish.”

“She
wakes us up. It’s good she’s in the other place.”

“Tell
’em, Monica. You sleep in the other place now, too.”

The
sole white girl, pug-faced and strawberry blond, stared at her knees.

“Monica
goes out.”

“Monica
gots to shower.”

“Bitch!”
screamed Valerie. She’d stopped struggling but shook her fist at one group of
girls, then the others. Her eyes were hard, dry, determined. “Shut up!”

“Admit
it, Monica! You gots to shower!”

“He
take you out, too, Monicaaaa!”

Monica
hung her head.

“Admit
it, Monicaa!”

Individual
comments coalesced to a chant.
“Admit it! Admit it! Admit it! Admit it!”

Monica
began crying.

“Fuck
youuu!” screamed Valerie.

Wascomb
said, “That kind of language really isn’t— ”

“
You
the fucker,” said Trish. “You and Monica fuck him every night and then you
shower.”