The first thing she heard was a brief, rather unpleasant hissing sound. It was followed quickly by a clearly understandable man’s voice that sounded as though she were hearing it through a tin can microphone.
“Darlene Mallory must listen to this recording, and she must agree to help.”
Through her left ear, Darlene could hear her husband speaking.
“Before I begin my remarks, and before President Callaghan delivers hers,” Martin said, “it is my great pleasure to introduce the Young People’s Chorus from Washington, D.C., who are here today to welcome us all with their moving rendition of ‘The Face of the Waters.’”
The children began to sing. The harmonies of their angelic voices engulfed the remarkable scene.
“You don’t have to be afraid of us,” Darlene heard a man’s harsh voice say. “You come well recommended for this part, so all you have to do is follow my instructions.”
This was a different voice from the one she had attributed to Double M. Her stomach dropped as if she had fallen off a roof. She glanced over at Kim, who looked curious but also apprehensive.
The man continued. “We’re not going to take the blindfold off you. If we do that, we’d have to kill you.”
Darlene gasped. The voice was calm and as clinical as a science teacher. Educated and probably middle aged, she thought. She wondered briefly about the technology being employed. Was the voice being transmitted, or was it actually held in the device itself?
“You can speak any time something isn’t clear to you. Understood?”
A stuttering woman’s voice—no, a girl’s—said, “Yes. I … understand.”
Darlene felt bile in her throat. In front of her, macabrely, the children continued their pristine hymn.
“All right, then. Let us review the role you have agreed to play. I need to be certain you understand it perfectly. Where are you going to meet Secretary Evans?”
“At the Motel Six on Georgia Avenue. I’ll take a cab and have it drop me off a block away.” The girl sounded less fearful now. There actually was some strength in her voice.
“How will you get the key?”
“Room twenty-four is registered to William Betancourt. I’ll show the front desk clerk my ID and tell him that I lost my key. The clerk will see that I’m on the room registration, and give me a replacement.”
“What time will you do this?”
“Three o’clock in the afternoon.”
“Good. What will you do inside the room?”
“I’m going to get undressed. And then I’ll wait.”
“What are you waiting for?”
“A man—Secretary Evans.”
“Can you describe him from the photographs we gave you?”
“He’s in his fifties. He’s not very fit. He has brown hair, but not a lot of it.”
“Good.”
“When he knocks on the door, what will you do?”
“I’ll drag him into the room. Then I’ll push him onto the bed.”
“You’ll straddle him?”
“Yes.”
“Kiss him?”
“Yes.”
“Good.”
“What else will you say?”
“I’ll tell him that he’s got me very excited. I’ll put his hands on me to show him just how much. I’ll tell him that I’m going to do it just the way he likes, really, really slowly. If he lets me, I’ll undress him.”
“If he fights you?”
“I’ll act as if it’s all part of the game he likes. I’ll keep straddling him. When he tries to get out from under me, I’ll make sure it looks like we’re playing. Getting physical.” Her tone had gotten even stronger.
“Good.”
“Once I’m off him, I’ll start screaming for him to get out.”
“What then?”
“I’ll wait twenty minutes. If the police don’t show up, I’ll call them myself.”
“What will you tell the police when they show up?”
“I’ll be crying. I’ll pretend to be scared. I’ll tell them that I’m a self-employed escort and that he was my client. A regular.”
“When they ask you if you know who your client is, what will you tell them?”
“I’ll say that his name is Russ Evans and he’s the Secretary of Agriculture. I’ll tell them I had decided to record us fucking. I’m going to use that word, too. I’ll tell them that the video camera was recording when he got rough with me after I told him to leave. Then I’ll show them where I hid the camera and tripod.”
“You’re very good at this,” the man said.
“When will I get paid?”
“Soon. Very soon. Half now, half when you’re done. You did terrific here. It will be a pleasure working with you.”
“Thank you.”
Darlene stared blankly ahead. Her hands were trembling and her breathing was shallow. A cold sweat had formed on the back of her neck and dripped unpleasantly down the inside of her blouse.
The voice of Double M returned. “If you want to help Secretary Evans, we must meet. There’s an alley behind the movie theater on Columbus Avenue. Eight
P.M.
tomorrow night. Come alone. Tell no one except Kim Hajjar about this recording. Lives are in danger.”
The children finished singing and were rewarded with rapturous applause. Darlene rose to her feet, applauding, though numbly. He legs were Jell-O.
“This is the end of the transmission,” Double M said. “It will loop for ten minutes more before—”
The recording went silent.
CHAPTER 23
Despite knowing that Joey Alderson was in his mid-twenties, Lou had trouble not thinking of him as a boy—especially following the disaster at Millie’s. For much of the early drive from the hospital back to Kings Ridge, Joey stared contentedly out the window, making no attempt to initiate conversation. His thumb and hand, immobilized in plaster, were supported in a sling.
Over the two days before picking Joey up for the ride home, Lou had twice stopped by the hospital to see him. The first time, Joey was heavily medicated and barely able to put two words together. A day later, Lou managed to engage him in a brief conversation. Even though Joey was sweet and eager to respond, there was no question that he was, as Millie had said, limited. He had almost no insight as to why he had put his hand in harm’s way for the sake of getting at a piece of carrot.
“How you doing over there, buddy?” Lou asked, wishing he had had the time to clean out his Toyota before putting a post-op patient inside it.
Joey’s smile was engaging. “I’m doing fine,” he chirped. “How are you?”
“Doin’ okay, Joey. Doin’ okay. Listen, Joey, I don’t want to upset you any, but I wonder if you’ve had any more thoughts about what happened at the restaurant.”
“You mean with my thumb?”
Lou groaned inwardly. “Exactly. I’m still trying to figure out what you were thinking.”
Lou caught Joey’s shrug out of the corner of his eye. “All I could think about was how badly I wanted that carrot.”
The vapid response was no surprise.
“You didn’t think you might get hurt?”
This time, Joey turned and gazed across at him. His expression was blank—not deep in thought, not searching for an answer to Lou’s question, but seemingly disconnected from his mind. Lou realized he had seen a similar expression before. Carolyn Meacham stared at him without comprehension moments after she had abandoned her reckless pursuit of the sedan with a broken taillight.
A parody of Dylan’s classic crossed Lou’s mind.
The answer my friend is blowin’ in Kings Ridge.…
The answer is blowin’ in Kings Ridge.
Joey pointed out the window at a roadside exit sign. “Can you get off here?” he asked.
“Sure,” Lou replied, grateful to have anything approaching a meaningful exchange. “What for?”
“I’ve got to get to the pet store before I go home.”
“I didn’t know you had any pets,” Lou said.
Joey placed his left index finger to his lips, letting Lou know it was a secret. “You won’t tell Millie, now, will you? She doesn’t really allow any animals in the Dorms.”
Lou flashed on his discussion with Emily about bending rules. He didn’t feel he had been all that convincing, but at least she had left his apartment with a promise to give Steve a sporting chance.
“No problem, pal,” he said. “So what do you have? Dog? Cat?”
“You’ll see,” Joey replied mischievously.
Art’s Critters was a small storefront operation sandwiched between an optician and a cut-rate jeweler in a modest strip mall. Lou offered to get whatever was needed, but Joey refused. He fished a thin, tattered wallet from his jeans and strode excitedly into the store. A few minutes later, he emerged carrying a medium-sized brown paper bag.
“Can’t wait to get home,” he said.
When they arrived at Millie’s, the lunch rush was over, leaving plenty of available parking spaces. The restaurateur was waiting for them just inside the entrance, and burst out the front door before Lou shut off his engine. She was carrying a cardboard box of food. Lou helped undo Joey’s seat belt, then reached across his lap to open the passenger door. Joey set his bag on the floor before getting out.
“Hi, there, buddy,” Millie said.
“Hi, Ma.”
Millie set the box on the ground and gave Joey a quick peck on the cheek. Lou popped the trunk and set the food inside.
“I just put some snack stuff together for you. You can come over to the restaurant for your meals if you’re up to it.”
“Oh, I’m up to it.”
“The report is good. His surgeon thinks we’re looking at maybe seventy-five percent functional recovery. Maybe more.”
“Joey, you sure you don’t want to stay with me?”
“No, Ma. You know how happy I am to be in my own place. All I thought about in the hospital was how much I just wanted to get home. I have some pain medicine that I don’t even think I’ll need, but if I do, I can take one or two every four hours, and some infection medicine I need to take twice a day.”
“He needs to go back in three days,” Lou said. “I think I can adjust my schedule to come out and—”
“Nonsense. I have people who will drive us. You’ve been just wonderful, Lou.”
“He’s going to help me get settled in at my place,” Joey said, perhaps a bit too quickly. “I’ll be at the restaurant for dinner.”
“Very well, dear,” Millie said. “You know how I respect your privacy. That’s your home not mine.”
Millie thanked Lou again, wrapped him in her arms, and stood on her tiptoes to kiss his cheek.
The Dorms, ten or twelve units, white vinyl siding, black shutters, was nothing special. In fact, despite well-trimmed hedges and several small flower gardens, it reminded Lou of the sort of motel that might have rates by the day, half day, or hour. Unfortunately, it also reminded him of places he once took refuge in when he was in no shape to go home.
Never again,
he thought, violating AA’s most essential day-at-a-time maxim.
Never ever again.
The print curtains looked fairly new, and there were brass numbers nailed to the front of each red painted door. Joey lived in unit number six.
Carrying his package inside his sling, Joey fished his key ring out of his pocket and unlocked his door. Lou followed with the cook’s small duffel bag and then the carton of food.
Cozy,
he thought.
Cozy and surprisingly neat, but small.
There was a kitchenette and an adjacent dining area with a table for two that Lou guessed most often sat one. The sitting area featured a brown tweed sofa, modest flat-screen television mounted to the wall, and a couple of area rugs that covered part of a parquet floor.
“Where do you sleep?” Lou asked, noting that what was probably the door to a bedroom was closed.
Joey pointed to the couch. “It folds out into a bed,” he said. “It’s more comfortable than you’d think.”
“Oh, trust me,” Lou said. “I know all about foldout couches. What about your pet? Where do you keep it?”
“Them, not it. They’re in the bedroom,” he said. He nodded toward the closed door. Again, there was playfulness in his expression.
“So what’s in the bag?” Lou asked.
Joey pulled out what looked like a Chinese food leftover container and clumsily opened the top a bit.
Scampering about on the bottom were two small brown mice.
Ah, pet mice,
Lou thought.
Harmless enough.
Still, he understood why the young cook was reluctant to have Millie know about his hobby.
“Ready to see something cool?” Joey asked conspiratorially.
“Ready,” Lou said.
“You got to promise not to tell,” Joey said.
“Scout’s honor.”
Joey turned the knob and nudged the door open with his foot. A strange, musty odor immediately wafted out. The first thing Lou saw were two workbenches, with tools spread across the top. There was a small, empty wire cage at one end with a mouse wheel in it. But the main attraction was in the center of the room—a huge Lucite cube, six feet on each side, raised off the floor a foot or so on a heavy wooden platform. Fixed to the top of the cube and plugged into a wall socket by a long cord was what appeared to be a ventilation apparatus. There was also an inch-in-diameter Lucite tube, bent upward at a ninety-degree angle and sealed at the outer end with a rubber stopper and inside by what appeared to be a levered trapdoor.
Warming lights were clipped to two of the four sides, illuminating a tall, irregular mound arising from the floor at the center of the cube, and looking somewhat like the spired castle of a Disney princess. In one corner of the floor was a dish of water. In another was a mound of what looked like a mix of wood pieces and sawdust.
A complex mouse habitat,
Lou thought.
Just the sort of thing the eccentric kid of a hundred knots would build.
Then he stopped and caught his breath. The surface of the castle was moving.
“Get it?” Joey asked proudly. “The mice aren’t my pets. They’re the
food
for my pets.”
“Pet what?” Lou asked, his voice breaking between the words.
He remained fixed to where he was standing, unable to advance as he struggled to sort out what he was seeing.
“Termites,” Joey said simply. “Beautiful, aren’t they?”
“Termites?”
Lou could see them now—a sheet of constant motion coating virtually the entire castle. He managed a couple of baby steps toward them.