Satan’s Lambs (17 page)

“God, the man knows me too well.” Anita Casey laughed and sat on the edge of the stone wall. “Why am I being bribed? Something to do with the Skidmoore kid? You from Knoxville PD?”

“Lexington. I'm working on the kidnapping.”

“That kid Valetta took?”

Lena quit swinging her legs.

“Did you question the Skidmoore boy about it?” Mendez asked.

Casey shrugged. “We got a lot on the murder itself, that's what he wanted to talk about. He about died when he went in there and saw how big Valetta was. That's why he missed a couple—or so he says. He's supposed to be a pretty good marksman. Done a lot of hunting with his dad.” Casey grimaced. “But nothing on the kid that's missing. I don't think Skidmoore knew Archie Valetta from a hole in the wall. Valetta was an assignment.”

“Assignment?” Lena said.

“From some man he calls his mentor. That's all he'll say. He was mixed up in cult stuff with some other kids, and then he got recruited at a hell party.”

“Excuse me?” Lena said.

“Adolescent satanism,” Mendez said. “Get together around a bonfire. Take drugs, chant to the devil, maybe sacrifice an animal.”

“Typical sock hop,” Casey said. She looked at Mendez. “This kid you're looking for. He's five years old?”

“Four,” Lena said.

Casey looked at her thoughtfully.

“His mother hired me,” Lena said.

Anita Casey pushed hair out of her eyes and looked at Mendez. “You got anybody on the bulletin boards?”

Mendez nodded. “One of the guys in vice.”

“Good. Probably nothing will show up, but you never know. I watch the boards myself. If I see anything, I'll get with you. And I've got some people and places I can check into. But I'll tell you now, Skidmoore doesn't know anything about the kid. I've got the whole statement on video, though. It can't go out of the office, but you're welcome to take a look.”

“I'd like to see it,” Mendez said.

“Looks like a match on the hubcap. Eyeball, anyway.” Hackburton took a pack of Merits out of his shirt pocket. “Assuming the lab backs us up.”

Lena yawned and propped her chin in her hands. It was after seven and they still had the drive home. Casey had wanted them to wait until certain administrative personnel went home. She slid the video into the VCR and pushed the Play button. The television screen showed static, then a case number. The picture blossomed, showing a small interrogation room—yellowing ivory walls, scarred linoleum, a battered wood table.

Hank Skidmoore was young and nervous. He wore a black suit, white shirt, and brown tie. His eyes were blue, he wore round, thick glasses, there was acne around his temples. He had a thatch of brown curly hair that he pushed out of his eyes. He looked up and focused on the camera.

“State your name please,” came a female voice. Casey's.

Skidmoore turned away from the camera, and stared across the room. “Henry P. Skidmoore. I go by Hank.”

“What does the
P
stand for?”

“Umm. Peter.” He took a sip of water from a glass that sat on the table.

“That's fine, Hank.”

The boy smiled.

“Hank, where'd you get the camera?”

He shrugged. “I found it.”

“Found it? It's got Archie Valetta's initials on it. Where'd you find it?”

“I saw it in the motel room. Valetta's. It was kind of neat. It has its viewfinder thing on the top. Like those old-timey cameras, you know?”

“So you took it?”

Hank shrugged. “Spoils of war.”

“Okay, let's go back some, Hank. I want to understand, okay? I want to know how all this got started.”

Hank frowned. “It was—” His voice cracked, and he cleared his throat. “I was kind of into Scientology. This was after my mom left. And me and Dad—I guess, you know, we weren't, we weren't getting along. And one of the Guardians noticed me.”

“Who are the Guardians, Hank?”

“They're kind of like spies for the group.” Hank grinned suddenly, looking young and attractive. “The CIA of Scientology. This guy introduced me to one of the bitches. This was just, you know, because he kind of liked me. He said I had potential. And shouldn't be stuck in that kind of chicken-shit Scientology stuff. That there was more to life.”

“Do you know the name of the Guardian?”

Hank's face seemed to close up. “No.”

“Who were the bitches?”

“Girls, you know, prostitutes. Only they're different, you know. They're not part of the Scientology stuff. They do it for Satan. Bring their money for the group. Anyway, this one, she calls herself Wendy, and me Peter Pan.” Hank smiled bashfully, then stared at his hands.

“Tell me about Wendy, Hank.”

“We … She liked me. She was even younger than me. But it didn't seem like it. She had lots of neat experiences. Like she'd been with this rock group awhile? They're real famous. But now she does this. She didn't like being with them after a while, 'cause they hit her a lot. And one of them liked to hold her under water. So she didn't like that.

“But we were friends and like. She … We could talk, you know? She was always so interested in everything, like what I did, and movies I saw, and gave me books to read. And I mean, she really did like me. She took me places to eat and stuff, and she paid for it. And she got me in with the kids, but then she said, you know, they were pretty small stuff. Kid stuff, and she said she had lived, and like they hadn't. And she knew things, she was what you call street smart, and she told me all kinds of stuff you can't believe.” He shook his head from side to side.

“Then what?” Casey's voice.

“There was going to be a hell party, but I wasn't sure I was going. I told Wendy that was just kid stuff, and I wanted something … and wanted real stuff. And she said go to the party. That there might be somebody there I could, like, you know, talk to. Who might tell me things.”

“And did you go to the party, Hank?”

He nodded.

“When was that?”

He shrugged.

“Do you remember what day of the week?”

“I think … I think it was Thursday. 'Cause I know I had school the next day. But I skipped.”

“How long ago was this?”

“A few months.”

“Do you remember which month?”

He shook his head.

“What kind of weather was it? Was it cold? Was it around Christmas?”

He slumped back in his chair, eyes downcast.

“Did you meet someone at the party, Hank?”

He put his elbows on the table, rocking it gently back and forth. He leaned forward. “I met this guy. And he said I had something. Like charisma, or magnetism, like that. And I asked him about the Black Cross. 'Cause those guys are so cool, and I really wanted to be in that. And he wanted to know where I heard about it. And it was Wendy told me, but I didn't tell him, 'cause I didn't want to get her in trouble.”

“What's the Black Cross, Hank?”

“They're like murder for hire. They're bad. You haven't heard of them? I guess they're secret. No police could ever catch up to those guys. Those guys want you”—he snapped a finger—“and it's over, man. You're history.”

“Do you really believe that, Hank?”

“Oh, yeah. Wendy, see, she told me about this rock guy. This other guy was bothering him and stuff. Said he owed him money, or something, and was getting like to be a pest. Real pest. And said he was going to the cops and stuff. And he knew some people kind of high up. So the rock guy, he calls this dude who calls the Black Cross. And next thing you know, this pesty guy, he gets it. I mean, all you got to do is pick up a phone. Talk about, you know, reach out and touch someone.”

“Was this guy that you met at the hell party, was he part of the Black Cross?”

“I don't think he ever did things. I think he kind of like made arrangements. Or recruited. Your navy recruiter.”

“Can you give me a name?”

Hank shrugged.

“Come on, Hank. You must have called him something.”

“It wasn't his real name.”

“What did you call him?”

“Enoch. Mr. Enoch.” Hank stared down at the table.

“What did you-all talk about?”

Hank shrugged. “He told me that the Black Cross was like this elite kind of cadre. Like navy SEALs. Only the best. And that they wouldn't even consider a guy like me, 'cause I was so young. But he said sometimes they made exceptions, if somebody vouched for you.”

“Did he say he'd vouch for you?”

Hank nodded.

“Say yes or no, Hank.”

“Yeah. He said he would.”

“Just like that? No strings attached?”

“I would have to prove myself.”

“How would you have to prove yourself?”

Hank shrugged.

“What kind of things did he want you to do?”

Hank looked at his hands. “Just things.”

“What did Enoch ask you to do, Hank?”

Hank mumbled something Lena could not catch. Anita Casey turned up the volume on the VCR.

“… to be initiated.”

“What did that involve?”

“It's a secret ceremony!” Hank almost stood up, then settled down in his chair. “If I tell you it all, I'll be struck dead, and the spirit will leave me to burn alone.”

“What happened after the initiation?”

“I had to earn ten thousand dollars. It was like a token, for Satan, to prove I was sincere.”

“How did they want you to earn the money?”

Hank's chin sank down to his chest.

“Hank?”

He took off his glasses and wiped his eyes. “I just did it, okay? I earned it.”

“How long did that take?”

“I don't know. A few months. Three months.”

“And then what?”

“I earned an assignment.”

“What was the assignment?”

“To kill that guy in the motel. Archie Valetta. See, they knew I could shoot. And that I could get guns.”

“Who gave you the assignment?”

“Mr. Enoch.”

“What did he tell you?”

“That this guy had turned on the group, and that they had to, like, make him an example. And he wanted me to drive down there. But I couldn't.”

“Why not?”

Hank looked up. “I never drove that far by myself. I was afraid I'd get lost. So Mr. Enoch drove down and I followed him.” Hank grinned. “I did pretty good till we got to the city. Boy, that Knoxville is confusing to find your way in.”

Hackburton blew smoke.

“When we got to Knoxville, Mr. Enoch showed me the motel. Then he told me to go to McDonald's and get something to eat. And he'd tell me when to go. I ordered stuff, but I wasn't really hungry, so I threw it away and waited. And he came and said to shoot this guy, Valetta, thirteen times, and to cut him, like. Like they'd already showed me. Put his balls in his mouth and like that.”

“Had you done that before?”

Hank shrugged. “And then I was supposed to get the briefcase and go.”

“What happened to the briefcase?”

“I gave it to Mr. Enoch.”

“What was in it?”

“I don't know. He told me not to look.”

“And you didn't? Come on, Hank. You must have been curious. Nobody would know you'd peeked.”

Hank looked up steadily. “Satan would know.”

Casey turned the television off and hit the Rewind button on the VCR. Hackburton tapped a Merit out of his pack and lit it.

Anita Casey sat on the edge of the table, skirt hiked high on her thighs. “Okay.” She looked at Mendez and Hackburton. “I've given you all I've got. Like I told Mendez, I'll be looking around for the kid, and watching the boards for anything that might come up. I think this group you're after may be connected to a child-porn ring I'm looking into. They're called the Five-to-Nines. Ever heard of them?”

Hackburton shook his head. Mendez frowned.

“There was a kiddie porn movie out by that name.”

Casey reached for Hackburton's pack of Merits and helped herself. “That's where they picked up their title. According to one of my sources, there's some crossover between them and a heavy-duty cult in LaRue County. There can't be two damn cults in that area, surely. So it sounds like your people. If your Hayes shows up again, I'd like to know when and where.”

Mendez nodded. “He's due to see his parole officer in about three weeks. If he shows, I'll grab him then.”

Anita Casey pointed a finger at Hackburton. “I want a list of the license numbers you pick up at that clinic in Knoxville.”

“Yes ma'am,” Hackburton said. He looked at Casey, then at Mendez. “She tell you what they found in the kid's freezer? When they searched Skidmoore's house?”

Casey blew smoke. “Testicles, heart, and tongue. Done up in white butcher paper, just like at the deli. Our boy Hank's been this route before.”

Hackburton looked at Lena. “You got kids?”

“No.”

“Lucky you.”

28

Lena trudged up the steps of Eloise Valetta's apartment building, checking the dark corners on her way up. She heard a footstep and glanced over her shoulder. Nobody. She knocked on Eloise's door.

For once, the television wasn't going next door. It was early. Most people were off to work, or huddled in bed.

Lena knocked again. Louder.

The door swung open. Eloise Valetta still had the patch over her gouged eye, but the swelling was down on the other. Her bruises were fading from blue to yellowish green. Her good eye seemed unfocused, till she squinted at Lena.

“Lena! Come in.”

Eloise wore ragged pink bunny slippers and slid her feet along the carpet! She led Lena around two columns of square white boxes, stacked a foot over her head. She waved Lena to the chair, then sat down on the edge of the couch, her hands in fists.