Tribe (5 page)

“Martha, it's very serious. We're not only talking about the two most important people in my life, we're talking about the safety and health of a mere infant. I beg you with all my heart, if you love them as much as I do, then tell me what you know.” He paused. “After all, he's taken her out of Colorado. We could have the FBI get involved.”

“Oh, my, what a good idea.” Martha smiled. “In fact, maybe I'll call them right now.”

“Martha, I saved Zeb from drugs and Satan before. I can save him again.”

“Knock off the bullshit, Rick. You might as well give up— he's never going back there. From what little I do know, I believe he was going to hide her somewhere. Somewhere you'd never find her.”

“But he does have her, doesn't he?”

“Frankly, my dear, I have no idea.”

“Then who does?”

“Maybe someone in Mexico, maybe one of his friends in California. Or Canada. He mentioned something about going up there.” She looked at him wryly, gathered her courage, and said, “But that's a good idea, now that you mention it. I'll call the FBI and then they'll investigate The Congregation. Maybe they'd even shut down your fucking church, burn down your little compound of quackery, and put all you goddamn nuts in jail where you and your fucking god belong. I hope to hell—”

A huge mass began swirling to Rick's right and swept him aside. It was Paul, his fury erupting at the sound of her blasphemous words. And in an instant Paul and all his brute force were hurling against the front door. Under his sheer force the brass chain snapped in two and the door went hurling inward. Martha screamed as the door hit her in the face and threw her back onto the floor. Paul surged inside, zeroing in on her, aiming his pistol right at her forehead.

“Don't, Paul!” shouted Rick, rushing in after him.

“Go ahead, you fuckers!” screamed Martha, lying on her back, her nose bleeding. “Kill me! Isn't that what you wanted to do when I left? Go on, you goddamn Bible-thumping Jesus freaks, kill me! Now's your chance!”

“Shut up, Martha!”

“Eat shit, Rick!” She looked right up at Paul. “Don't listen to that bossy ass! He's always telling everyone what to do, how to act! Why do you think I ran away? I was looking for love and trust, a spiritual place, but that's not what I found. Your god is evil! Evil and awful! Go on, pull the trigger! If you kill me I'll meet the real Maker, and He's certainly not yours!”

Seeing Paul steady his aim, Rick jumped in, grabbed him by the arm. “No!” He nudged Paul back, shielded Martha. “She still hasn't told us where he is.”

“And I won't! I could give a shit what you do to me. I took your beatings before and I'll take them again. I'm not telling you a thing about my son!” She wiped her nose, grinned. “You know what, Rick? I was the one who told him to do it, to take her. I told him if he had any brains he'd get the hell out of there. Your church is the biggest garbage pile I've ever seen.”

This bitch, Rick knew, was nothing if not resolute. He'd been married to her for almost eleven years when she'd broken with The Congregation and taken their young son and fled. He'd looked and looked, spending an entire six months driving around the country in search of them. Finally he'd hired an investigator, but that, too, proved fruitless. It was as if the two of them, Martha and the young Zebulun, had simply evaporated. He'd never stopped praying, however, and finally a miracle occurred: One day some three years ago his son Zeb just walked up the dirt road of The Congregation's compound.

But now Zeb was gone once again, his family was breaking apart one more time, and Rick knew it was because of this woman lying before him. This was the second time she'd done this, taken his son from him. He wasn't going to let her succeed.

Rick leaned down to her, lifted his right fist up to his left shoulder, then swung down, striking Martha on the chin as hard as he could, shouting, “God have mercy on you!”

Martha cried out and wormed her way backward. Blood now gushed from her bottom lip as well as her nose, and she clutched her face with her right hand.

“You're filled with the devil! You're desperately wicked!” Rick turned to Paul and shouted, “Watch her!”

He left them, stormed through the small living room, found a hall, and charged to the rear of the house. The first door proved to be a bathroom. The next a bedroom. He ducked in, saw her bed, her clothes, her makeup. And he tore through it all, flinging her clothes out of the closet, kicking her shoes aside, pulling her sweaters from a shelf. Then he turned to her small dressing table, and with one great holler he took his arm and wiped her cosmetics and brushes, her mirror and creams from the table and all over the floor. He couldn't believe it all, so many colors, so many vain items. And so many different kinds of fabrics—cottons combined with polyesters, wools stitched with elastic bands. Nothing pure. Nothing simple. Spinning around, he grabbed the salmon-colored sheets—they should be pure white!—from her double bed, ripped them loose, and then tore them in half. Next he dumped over her small bedside table, sending a clock radio, lamp, and a couple of books crashing onto the floor.

His righteous anger hotter than ever, he rushed out of the room, across the hall, into another small bedroom. He froze. There was a single bed on one side, some baseball posters on the wall. Of course this had been where Zeb had grown up. These were his boyhood things. Certainly he'd put together that plastic model of a plane hanging from the ceiling. Of course he'd written his high school reports on that little typewriter. Rick hurled open the closet door, saw books, a few clothes, some boxes, a baseball glove and bat. Dear Jehovah. All those years Zeb had been so close, right here in Santa Fe, and Rick hadn't known it. And then he wondered if this was where his son had first come with the baby. Perhaps. The thought drove him crazy with rage, and Rick grabbed the bat and smashed it all, the model, the typewriter, the radio, the lamp. When all of it lay in pieces on the floor, he stopped, his breathing fast and heavy.

But still he didn't have what he came for.

He dropped the baseball bat and charged out. Returning to the living room, he found Paul still aiming his gun directly at Martha, who was now on her couch, her head leaned back. Seated next to a small basket that contained the remote controls for the television and VCR, she pressed the corner of a small throw blanket to her nose in a futile attempt to stop the bleeding.

Rick pointed a finger right at her and in a voice like thunder from the mountain shouted, “Where is my son?”

In response her right hand shot out, the middle finger pointing high from her fist. “Up your tight ass!”

And Rick yelled, “Lord have mercy on you!”

“Likewise, I'm sure!”

He spun to his left, bursting into the kitchen, a small space, mostly white, a little table at the far end. His eyes darting around, he took it all in: the blender, the sink, the microwave. A steaming pot of coffee. Lastly he hit upon the small stack of mail on the far edge of the counter and next to the phone. He dove into the envelopes, his fingers desperately tearing through the electrical bill, some Christmas cards, a Visa bill, as well as—

Wait, he thought. His hands shaking, he thumbed back through it all, returning to one of the cards. He saw the postmark, noted the address on the back. Why did this look familiar? It was something Zeb himself had once mentioned, wasn't it? And then he ripped open the envelope, which contained a brief note as well as two photographs, one of a woman, another of a house. Of course, Rick realized. Why hadn't he thought to look there?

Out of nowhere a siren started screaming. Dear Lord, realized Rick, it was the burglar alarm.

He stuffed the envelope and its contents into his pocket, and by the time Rick rushed back to the living room Paul was upon Martha, batting a remote control out of her hands. All Martha did, however, was laugh.

“He's not so smart, is he!” she shouted almost gleefully to Rick. “I told him I was going to turn on the TV, but instead I took the remote to my alarm system. I hit the panic button, you assholes—the police are on the way!”

Rick strode directly toward her, raised his fist, and as Paul held her, struck Martha on the chin. A fresh spray of blood flew across the room, and hearing the crack of her jaw and the pitch of her scream, Rick was glad. She deserved all this pain and more. Unfortunately there just wasn't time.

Grabbing Paul by the arm, Rick shouted, “Come on, let's get out of here!”

“But—”

“Move it!”

As they charged out of the house Rick paused at the front door, glanced back, saw the battered Martha slumped on the couch and laughing hysterically. Or was she crying? Her blond hair was matted, her clothing wet with blood. Pathetic. Demonic. How had he ever loved her?

Never mind, he thought, turning and racing through the dull morning light toward the car. There was indeed a God. His God. And He was great, for He'd answered Rick's prayers yet again. Praise the Almighty Lord. It was He who had shown the postmark to Rick. He who was leading Rick to his fallen son. Praise God. Praise God. Praise God.

The two men rushed to the car, climbed in, and sped away. Two blocks later, just like any law-abiding citizens, they pulled to the side of the street and let the police car zoom by.

Watching it disappear in the rearview mirror, Paul asked, “Where to now?”

“Where?” replied Rick smugly as he patted his pocket. “Minneapolis, of course.”

As Todd waited for
Janice to return to the table at Florentine's, a trendy Italian restaurant on Hennepin Avenue, he stared out the large plate-glass window at the raging storm. The temperature had indeed jumped upward this afternoon, warming all the way to a balmy twenty above, the first time the temperature had topped zero all week. As also promised, the snow was falling with wintry gusto. Surely, thought Todd, sipping his red wine and watching as a whirlwind of snow came charging up the street, they were going to get more than the promised twelve inches. Maybe even fifteen. Yet while traffic on the whitened Hennepin was down noticeably, this restaurant was packed with yuppies wearing Moon-Boots and puffy, awkward coats and sweaters as thick as doormats. Rather than a quiet, candlelit haven, Florentine's was wild tonight, the pastas steaming, the wine flowing and flowing, people partying as the proverbial ship went down.

This was a great place to spend a deep winter night, but Todd realized he shouldn't have taken Janice here, not tonight. Much too noisy. Much too fun. Janice had wanted to talk, needed to most desperately. This thing about a client dropping a baby in her lap had clearly thrown her for a loop. In all the years since college Todd had never known Janice to get tripped up like this, to muddy the boundaries of her personal life with other people's dirty little problems. Then again, maybe the crisis was all about babies; perhaps it tapped into her despair at not having kids, which she had mentioned with increasing frequency in the last few years.

Well, he supposed, that would make sense, although he couldn't really sympathize. Having been married for a half dozen years, he could have a teenaged son or daughter by now, a concept he found frightening. Way back when, Trish and he had fortunately put off the kid thing. She'd been in med school. He'd been obsessed with his career. They'd been too busy. So when the marriage ended it wasn't very complicated—not even a cat to divide—and Todd continued to be thankful for that.

Todd checked his watch, wondered what was taking Janice so long. They hadn't been here more than ten minutes when she'd slipped off to call home and check on Jeff Barnes, their friend and infamous drag queen, who was also tonight's babysitter. Now turning around in his seat, Todd looked toward the rear of the restaurant and couldn't spot Janice, but did notice a few heads turning his way. So at least some people still recognized him, he thought, even though it had been months and months since he'd left Channel 7. And while for the first month or two after Michael's death Todd had dreaded going out in public, it felt okay tonight; now that he was out as gay he was no longer worried about what people were thinking.

Suddenly he saw Janice cutting through the tiny, crowded restaurant, and he admired her beauty all over again. Tall and slender, a narrow face that was dynamic and eye-catching, she was always full of energy. Tonight, though, the smile that usually paved her way through life was noticeably absent.

“Janice,
you look so sad.” “I am.”

“Don't be.”

Todd held her tight as they danced slowly to a Carly Simon song in the basement of Janice's sorority at Northwestern University. It was late and most of the other kids had drifted away, but Todd and Janice lingered as if they didn't want to let go of this night or perhaps their time in college. In a way, they both saw the future and they both sensed that this was the end of their relationship. Not only did Christmas break begin tomorrow, but after that Janice was taking off for a semester in Europe. Southern France to be exact, where she would study up on her French as well as drink in the sun and the wine. And then Greece, an entire summer of Mediterranean sun and topless beaches.

“I'm going to miss you,” said Todd.

“Yeah, I'm going to miss you too.”

As they moved slowly to the song he ran his hand through her rich, silky hair and kissed the side of her head. Even though he sensed that their relationship had run its course, he knew this winter would be lonely without her. For a variety of reasons they weren't right together, the two of them, yet Todd felt deeply attached to Janice, as if they were mysteriously linked. And holding her now he felt calm for the first time since Greg was killed last week. Still shaken by the incident, Todd clutched Janice more tightly, tried to block out the image of Greg dangling from the fire escape. Just exactly who and what had he seen up there?