Satan’s Lambs (4 page)

“Does this connect to Hayes in any way?”

“Not that I know of. But they're partners, Mendez, so who knows? They may get back together.”

“What's the favor?”

“I want to see the file. Valetta's file. Particularly concerning the last arrest, known companions, that kind of thing.”

She wished she knew what he was thinking while he looked at her so steadily.

“Why?” he asked.

“Why? How about
because
.”

“What's the robbery got to do with anything?”

“I study my adversaries from every angle, Joel. I like to know all the players.”

He narrowed his eyes. He always paid attention when she called him Joel.

“How does this connect to the free clinic?”

“You said yourself, Archie is dangerous. Eloise is uneasy. I'm just keeping an eye out.”

Mendez touched his mustache and frowned. Lena tapped her foot. Words never seemed to hurry or prod this man. She fingered the hem of her jacket, then looked up. “Help me or don't, Mendez. I was up most the night, and I'm tired.”

“Okay.” He picked up a folder from a neat stack on the right-hand corner of his desk.

“You got it right there? What's
your
interest, Mendez?”

“Hayes is out. Valetta's on his way. That's my interest.” He studied her for a long moment. “The robbery money wasn't recovered.”

“I thought it was.”

“Not all of it.” Mendez picked up his pen, tapping it lightly on the metal desk top. “Lena. How much do you know about Archie Valetta?”

She shrugged.

“He used to ride with the Grits,” Mendez said. “You know them?”

“Southern fried motorcycle gang.”

“Very low profile, and fairly new, but they've dug in all across the South—Kentucky, Tennessee, the Carolinas. They're moving very cautiously now, in Florida and Texas.”

“You said
used
to ride?”

“Kicked out, we don't know why. We got a hint from an informant that it was some kind of blackmail scam—but we don't really know any details. Don't know why they didn't kill him, either. Happened before he hooked up with Hayes. This isn't your usual perp, Lena. Valetta plays rough and dirty. He's a hardcore case, and an opportunist like everybody else these days. If something dirty comes up, he'll go for it.” He leaned back in his chair and narrowed his eyes. “Did you ever stop to think that Eloise Valetta may be using you? That she may not be leveling with you?”

“About the medical clinic?”

He frowned. “The little boy looks a bit like your nephew. Don't let that cloud your judgment. Don't get sentimental about the Valettas.”

“Are you telling me to turn my back on the kid, Mendez?”

Mendez sighed and handed her the file. “You have a way of putting things. Come to me, Lena, when it gets to be police business.”

5

Maynard was curled up peacefully in the rocking chair.

Lena took a breath. She hadn't realized she was worried till she saw the cat, safe and sound and asleep.

Hayes had a definite track record with animals.

There were two messages on the answering machine. Lena hit the Play button and picked up the cat. Maynard purred and Lena scratched him behind the ears. The machine whirred as the tape rewound.

“Ms. Padget? This is Elwin Newcomb, from Paris Road Cemetery? Need you to give me a call, if you will. Extension 232. Um, thanks.”

Lena pulled Maynard's tail. The cat miaowed.

The answering machine beeped, and a piano played. “‘We're poor little lambs, who've lost our way.…'” Lena frowned and sat down, and the familiar words poured from the tape.

We're little black sheep who've gone astray.…

Gentlemen rankers out on the spree,

Damned from here to Eternity,

God ha' mercy on such as we.…

Maynard squirmed out of Lena's arms, hind claws catching her left wrist and leaving a livid, bleeding scratch. Lena did not notice.

She saw Whitney, as clearly as if she'd been on the couch beside her, standing on the darkened stage, hair soft and silky on her shoulders. Lena had sat in the audience, fists clenched, nervous.

Whitney had hated auditions. She'd thrown up twice the night before. The play she'd been auditioning for was a musical; Lena could not remember what. Whitney had wanted to do something different, had wanted to stand out from the rows of pretty girls doing a number from
South Pacific
. She was going to put Kipling to music, and she'd sung a medley of Kipling ballads, starting with the little lost lambs. Lena had cut her Econ class to be there so she'd be able to answer Whitney's endless round of questions afterward—the tedious postmortem that made theater majors such a pain in the ass.

Did you notice I flubbed that second line? Could you tell my knees were shaking? I was sweating like a pig
—
could you see that?

It was the first time Lena had met Whitney's pal, the effervescent Rick Savese—a tap-dancing, piano-playing aspiring actor. He'd played piano for Whitney—his hair slicked back, a Camel cigarette dangling from his lips. He swore afterward it was his back-up that had made the difference, and gotten Whitney the part.

Whitney had introduced him to her little sister Lena, the up-and-coming economics major. He'd immediately asked Lena to lunch, and then dinner.

Jeffrey Hayes had been there too, hanging out with one of the backstage girls, the one who spent an inordinate amount of time at the student center playing Dungeons & Dragons. They'd been dating for more than a year, but it was over as soon as he heard Whitney sing. Jeff Hayes had fallen in love.

Or so it seemed.

Lena pushed the Save button, and played the message back.

He was getting to her, definitely getting to her. Lena walked through every room in the house. Her bedroom was as she'd left it, bed unmade, T-shirt thrown across the pillow. In the bathroom a wet towel was slung over the towel bar, a dripping washrag wadded over the soap dish in the tub, a bottle of shampoo open on the counter. No one had been in Kevin's old room. A mobile with a stuffed giraffe, a hippo, and a lion hung forlorn and dusty in the corner. The red-and-yellow wallpaper was still bright.

Lena closed the door and went to the basement.

Daylight streamed through the small ground-floor window, giving the room a murky illumination. Lena dodged the boxes and Kevin's old crib, and pulled the cord that hung from the light bulb in the middle of the ceiling.

Shadows, spiders, dust.

She sat on the bottom step of the rough wooden staircase. The basement was cool and humid, like a cave with a sour smell. She ought to have gotten rid of it all—the old clothes, the storybooks, the fuzzy brown pony on yellow rollers. She opened the box that was lodged near the bottom stair and found a pair of worn blue Osh-Kosh overalls. She remembered how Kevin had stashed toys down the front of the overalls till he could barely walk. She glanced at the third row of boxes, in particular the second box from the top. Hayes's stuff. Undisturbed. He'd hardly know what box to look in, if he even remembered that Whitney had those old things.

Lena stood on her tiptoes and stretched. No sooner did she have hold of the box than it slipped out of her hands and landed hard. She peeled back the cardboard flaps, and a cloud of fine-grained dust made her sneeze.

From the looks of things, Whitney had upended drawers and dumped them straight in the box. Lena burrowed through old bank statements, a ripped pair of Jockey shorts—size 34—and a copy of
The Nightmare Years
, by William L. Shirer. There were candle stubs, black and white, a thin dusty book with a black cover titled
Miniatore's Grimoire
, and a few wrinkled sheets of parchment.

And that was all. Except for a small tan spider.

Lena picked up the copy of
Miniatore's Grimoire
. It had an ancient, musty smell, and the cover was warped, as if it had been left in the rain. The words were in Italian, the print tiny and ornate.

She picked up the Shirer. It felt oddly light and lumpy. She flipped the book open, and smiled thinly.

Hayes had hollowed it out, cutting the pages away with jagged, laborious trouble, leaving an inch of margin all the way around. Inside was a hardbound notebook. Across the black cover,
Book of Shadows
had been written in calligraphy with blood red ink.

Jeffrey Hayes
had been lettered on the inside cover.
1971
. Lena did a quick calculation. In 1971, Jeffrey Hayes would have been about fifteen years old.

Hail Satan
was the opening salutation. The writing was spiky and slanted, the
t
crossed so hard the pen had scarred the paper. A goat's head had been sketched in the margin.

In only three days it will be Lammas Day. I can't sleep now because I think about it a lot. When I was little I did not like the altar. I did not like taking my clothes off, and that M saw everthing I had because I was naked. I liked seeing her though.

When we were little it was just watch and learn this and KEEP YOUR MOUTH SHUT. We were lambs then. But then they saw I was special.

That altar is heavy, it takes four fat men to get it out of the pickup. And the side by the fire is warm. Almost HOT. But that first time, boy did it feel cold on my back. And I didn't like drinking all that stuff. I love it now!!! Give me more!!!!

I close my eyes and think what it will be like. The smoke and all. That sweet stuff we burn up in bowls. It used to kind of make me sick. But I like it now.

Use to be HE would chant and put that oily stuff on me. And EVERWHERE on me. Thats what I do now to M. I like that so much, no wonder I can't sleep. The other kids are always scared of me because HE says I'm special. I never get cut. I DO the cut. In thee days I will pore oil on M. And then talk about kissing cousinas! And then the cuts. They give her lots of stuff so she won't scream. I wonder if they didn't give it??? We could hold her down.

666
666

666

Lena closed the book. Maybe later she would read the rest of it. Maybe never.

6

The gloom of early morning had thickened, and the skies were muddy. The smell of rain wafted in through the open car window, and the wind blew Lena's hair in her eyes. Maynard huddled in the cat carrier, emitting a full throaty cry at regular intervals.

Lena poked a finger through the mesh of the carrier, feeling the downlike softness of the cat's fur.

Burial space in the Paris Road Cemetery had been expensive. The grounds were circled by an eight-foot wall of gray fieldstone, every inch in excellent condition. The black wrought-iron gate, spiked at the top, was freshly painted and hung open across the blacktop drive. Lena parked in front of the office next to a hunter green Volvo. She glanced back at the two cars. Hers was green too, around the rust spots.

The woman behind the desk huddled over a typewriter as if she were cold and the typewriter might warm her.

“Is Elwin Newcomb in?” Lena asked.

The woman frowned and looked up. Black cat glasses hung from a chain around her neck. She wore thick Pan-Cake makeup over her fragile wrinkled skin, red rouge on her cheekbones. Her hair was white, teased and sprayed in place, and it sat like meringue, on the top of her head.

“Are you Lena Padget?”

Lena nodded.

“Go on in, honey.” The woman buzzed the intercom. “Elwin, it's Miz Padget.”

The office door opened before Lena got to it. Newcomb was a big man, tall and broad, with gray-flecked brown hair that was clipped short, and a complexion ravaged by acne scars. He was frowning, his movements jerky and restless, unlike the smooth calm Lena remembered from their past associations.

“Please.” He pointed to a chair upholstered in blue plaid. “Have a seat.”

Lena sat. She crossed her legs. “What's up, Mr. Newcomb?”

He rubbed a finger across the blotter on his desk. “As I mentioned when you called, we, uh, had some trouble last night.”

Lena pulled her left earring. It was loose, and she tightened it.

“What kind of trouble?” she said finally.

“Well. Vandalism, I guess.”

“My sister's grave?”

He nodded.

Lena bit her lip.

“Your nephew, too. I'm sorry.”

“A child's grave? What kind of vandalism we talking about?”

“Spray paint, that kind of thing.”

“Are the graves … disturbed in any way?”

“Oh, no, no, no. I'm sorry, I should have told you that off the bat. We don't … This kind of thing is unusual on our grounds. We're very careful, very security conscious. I can't tell you how sorry I am this has happened. We'll get it fixed up for you, no charge, of course. But I did want to let you know, in case you were to come out here, and see the gravestones missing.”

“Missing?”

“We'll be sending them off for cleaning—sanding, actually.”

Lena nodded. “Let's go take a look.”

Newcomb grimaced. “Naturally, you're curious. It's not necessary, though, if you don't want to go see. Might be best not to. We'll get it fixed up for you, just like it was.”

“I want to see it.”

“Sure.” Newcomb stood up. “I guess I don't blame you. Probably feel the same way myself.” He opened the door. “We'll be back, Carol. Going out to take a look.”

The white-haired woman nodded and stared at Lena's face.

“I'll drive you out,” Newcomb said. He opened the passenger door of the green Volvo.

He drove slowly along the narrow blacktop lane that wound through the cemetery. Whitney and Kevin were way out, in the newer section. There weren't as many trees in that area, and the grass was not as lush. But it was well kept, and nearly full. Newcomb pulled the Volvo to the side of the road, and Lena followed him up a small hill, past the deep, green-scummed pond, past the cottonwood tree.