The Devil's Menagerie (29 page)

She was his. She would not have been brought to his attention otherwise. Beringer, who had no faith, had come to believe in his destiny.

D
AVE
L
INDSTROM CRUISED
past the campus around eight-thirty, saw the crowds and a sign that read, P
OWWOW
P
ARKING
, with an arrow pointing toward one of the campus parking lots.

Dave remembered talking about the tribal gathering earlier that week at the dinner table, contemplating a family outing this Saturday. Would Richie have come here on his own? Angry over the quarrel about his father, might he have sought out crowds and activity?

Parking in the designated lot, Dave wandered along aisles of stalls to the main arena. An elderly, dignified Native American was giving an invocation, talking about Mother Earth, turning ceremoniously to face all four directions as he acknowledged the reverence his people had for the natural elements of life. The arena was crowded with Indians in colorful dress. Dave wished he could stay longer. He wished the family outing he had planned had brought him here, not his frustrated, aimless search for his missing son.

Walking slowly along the aisles past tented stalls, he replayed the scene at the dinner table the night before. Could he have handled it better? Had he let Richie down in some way he had not recognized or understood? Or was Glenda right in thinking that Ralph Beringer was manipulating all of them, including Richie?

The futility of wandering the aisles overcame him. He turned abruptly between two stalls, cut across another aisle and escaped from the area. A shortcut between nearby buildings took him to the back of the parking lot where he had left his car.

Moments later he was back on the streets of the city, asking himself where Richie might have gone. Where did the boy plan to spend the night? Was he with his father? Anger mixed with Dave’s frustration. Dammit, Richie knew how his mother would worry if he stayed out all night? Was this his way of punishing her? Punishing both of them?

The mall, he thought. Richie was old enough to enjoy wandering along the mall, looking in display windows or exploring some of the shops. It was worth a shot anyway. Dave couldn’t think of anything better.

He was running out of ideas. Reluctant to abandon the search, he was also convinced that he shouldn’t leave Glenda alone much longer.

Most of the mall stores, he remembered, closed at nine. Soon after that a ten-year-old boy on his own would catch the attention of mall security officers. Grasping the possibility with a feeling that he recognized as desperation, Dave headed for the north end of town and the huge shopping complex that had come to dominate the lives of so many San Carlos citizens.

“W
HAT THE HELL
do you mean, you lost him?” Braden shouted into the phone.

“Well, uh … he was just browsing these stalls, that’s all. I took my eye off him for a coupla seconds and he was gone.” Deputy Pritkin spoke in the tone of one who would rather have faced a firing squad than make his report.

“How long since you missed him?”

“Ten—fifteen minutes or so. Uh … do you think he spotted me?”

“If he did, that means he deliberately gave you the slip.” It seemed unlikely, Braden thought. Pritkin had been drafted into plainclothes for the assignment, but even if Lindstrom had recognized him as a cop, the professor would have had no reason to duck him … unless he had something to hide. “What about his ride? Did you check it?”

“Yeah. I mean, that’s where I am now—in the parking lot. His car’s gone.”

Braden swore. What was Lindstrom doing roaming the streets alone at night? If he didn’t have a class to teach, why wasn’t he home with his family?

“You want me to keep looking for him, sir?”

Christ almighty
, Braden thought. Sir.

“He’s probably on his way home,” he told the deputy. “Go and see. If his car isn’t there, wait for him. I want to know when he gets home.”

B
ERINGER’S MOMENT CAME
unexpectedly two hours after the Grand Entry began in the lengthy powwow. A long session of intertribal dances was ending. His attention was distracted by another slim Indian girl in a jingle dress—her entire skirt was covered with silver baubles that jingled as she danced—when he noticed that Nancy was missing from her vantage point on the far side of the arena. The boyfriend was still there, Beringer saw with relief, but where was the girl?

He walked around the arena, forcing himself not to hurry. On impulse he took the aisle nearest to where Nancy had been sitting on the grass in her skintight outfit, like a whore on a picnic. As he walked between two ranks of facing stalls, Beringer took off his glasses and polished the lenses with the soft linen handkerchief he always carried. Business for the vendors was much lighter than it had been earlier in the evening. One seller was even putting some of his jewelry away, ready to shut down. Beringer felt the first twinge of panic. Surely the powwow still had a couple hours to go. Nancy wouldn’t be bailing out this soon. Where—?

Then he saw her.

At the end of the aisle in which Beringer stood, Nancy Showalter paused to look around her. Apparently spotting what she was searching for, she started off purposefully to her right. By the time Beringer reached the end of the aisle, still compelling himself to stroll like a man with nothing on his mind, the tall girl was thirty yards off to his right, near the end of the quadrangle. There, beyond a screen of trees, Beringer saw what she was heading for: a row of portable privies set up to accommodate the needs of the powwow crowds.

Beringer no longer worried about suspicious eyes as he ambled toward the line of privies. What could be more natural and innocent?

Nancy had disappeared into the last cubicle in the row. As he neared it Beringer stopped, casually taking his time as he lit a cigarette. Exhaling, he glanced over his shoulder. A man in jeans and a cowboy hat was hurrying toward one of the privies, too preoccupied to look around. The expanse of lawn was surprisingly deserted.

He heard the rattle of the latch on the end privy as Nancy fumbled with the door. When she stepped out her eyes widened a little as she saw him standing there.

“Miss Showalter? I’m sorry, there’s been an accident.”

“What? What do you mean?”

“You’ll have to come with me.” He took her by the arm and started walking briskly, leading her behind the row of privies toward the nearby academic buildings.

“Is it … is it Mark? Has something happened?”

“No, your friend is fine.” Beringer smiled reassuringly at her, still walking quickly, forcing her to break into a trot to keep up, not giving her time to think.

“I don’t understand. Who … what—?” He felt the first tug of resistance.

Beringer pulled her into a shadowed lane between two buildings. Suddenly they were cut off from the crowded arena and the busy aisles of stalls. They were isolated, out of sight. One of Beringer’s hands bit into the soft flesh of Nancy’s arm. The other flicked open the blade of his Swiss knife. He held it close to the cringing girl’s face, moving it slowly back and forth as her eyes followed it. The blade seemed to catch all of the light in the dark passageway.

“I don’t want to have to cut you,” Beringer said with terrifying calm. “We’re gonna walk out of here to my car. Be a good girl, don’t make me cut that pretty face.”

“Please,” she whimpered, “don’t hurt me.”

When he pulled her by the arm, she didn’t resist. “Why would I want to hurt you?” he said. “This isn’t about hurting you, don’t you know that? This is about … love.”

Among the cars in the parking lot, stumbling through the shadows, Nancy whispered, as if clinging to a last forlorn hope, “Was there really an accident?”

Beringer didn’t answer.

R
ICHIE HAD DOZED
off. When he woke, stiff and cold, he was momentarily disoriented. He lay curled up on a plastic webbed chaise in a tiny enclosed patio. He sat up in alarm. Staring through a sliding glass door into a strange living room, he suddenly remembered lights coming on inside—remembered being scared. But no one had appeared, and he had figured out that a lamp in the living room and another in a bedroom were on automatic timers, set to turn on at a designated hour or when it became dark, creating the illusion that someone was at home.

He was at his father’s place. How long had he been asleep? Richie didn’t have a watch and he could not see a clock in the living room of the apartment. Had to be at least ten o’clock, he decided, maybe later. He was chilled and very hungry. Should have worn a sweatshirt or something warmer. He hadn’t expected to spend the night outside in the cold.

Everything had seemed so simple, really. His father had obviously come to San Carlos to see him. Well, if he wouldn’t come around to the house, Richie had to go find him.

He was suddenly seized with excitement. There was movement inside the apartment—someone was there. Richie saw the shadow of a man before the figure appeared, entering the living room from a small foyer. A tall, powerfully built man in jeans and a denim shirt crossed the room quickly, not glancing around, and disappeared down a hallway. Another light flared—the bathroom, Richie guessed.

His heart raced. The brief glimpse had been enough for him to recognize Ralph Beringer, the soldier in the photograph he carried in his wallet. His father.

Black gloves, Richie thought. Their image stuck in his mind, probably because it was so unusual to see someone wearing gloves in warm weather. Maybe they were driving gloves.

Easing off the chaise, he moved into the shadows to the left of the sliding glass doors, suddenly apprehensive of his father’s reaction, less certain of his reasons for being here.

Minutes ticked by. He wondered if he should knock on the glass door. He wondered if he should have come here at all against his mother’s wishes. What had seemed so clear-cut earlier was now murky, an emotional tangle. He didn’t want—

An arm shot into view. A hand slapped at the latch of the sliding door. The door skidded to the side, rumbling in its track. Richie stumbled backward, his heart in his throat. The big man grabbed his shirtfront, slamming him against the block wall of the patio. “What the hell do you think you’re doing? Who—?”

Ralph Beringer’s angry challenge broke off. He stared at the boy he had pinned against the wall. His grip loosened. “Shit, it’s you!” he said.

“I … I’m Richie.”

“Well, I’ll be damned!”

His father stared down at him for a long moment in silence. Then, to Richie’s surprise and intense relief, he began to laugh.

“H
OW DID YOU
find me?” Ralph Beringer asked curiously after they were inside the apartment.

“I saw you following my school bus. I saw you a couple times, you were driving the Buick. Then I saw you turn off on this street, San Anselmo Drive, so that’s where I came looking for you.”

“You were looking for me?”

Richie nodded.

“That still doesn’t tell me how you found this apartment.” Beringer was frowning now.

“I didn’t at first. It was just luck I saw you. It was yesterday afternoon, you were just leaving. I was up the street and I saw you drive out of the garage. I shouted but you didn’t hear me.”

“So how did you—?”

“I came back today after school. I knew where you drove out, so I snuck into the garage when somebody opened the gate. I was looking for the LeSabre but I saw your other car.”

Beringer reacted sharply. “My other car?”

“Yeah, the Taurus.” Richie grinned. “I’m really good with cars. You were driving the Taurus the first time I saw you. You followed us to the beach Sunday a week ago, didn’t you?”

“Pretty smart kid,” his father said, but he didn’t sound very happy that Richie had seen him in two different cars.

They talked for a long time. Once he got started Richie couldn’t stop talking. Beringer asked him a great many questions about his mom and Dave and Elli. He seemed to want to know all about them. Talking about them felt awkward, but Beringer did not appear to notice. Frequently, in fact, he seemed to stop listening, as if his mind had suddenly drifted off somewhere else. It was only after they had been together for some time, talking, that Richie realized his father was agitated about something. He couldn’t seem to stop moving about the room as they talked. He had two whiskeys, one right after the other, and then a can of beer from the refrigerator.

He pressed Richie closely about his decision to come looking for his father on his own. Was he certain that no one else knew? He hadn’t told anyone where he was going?

Finally—the digital clock on the VCR showed that it was after 11:00
P.M.
—Richie asked tentatively if there was anything to eat in the fridge.

His father stared at him. “You’re hungry?” he asked, as if the idea had never occurred to him.

“Uh, yeah … and I need to use the bathroom. I was waiting out there on the patio for hours.”

Beringer went down the hallway ahead of Richie and peered into the bathroom. Then he stepped aside and nodded. “Go ahead, kid. And make it snappy. We’ll go get a hamburger.”

Oddly self-conscious, Richie closed the door before he let loose the flood he had been holding back. While he stood there, tremendously relieved, he glanced around the bright, blue-tiled room. It was just a bathroom, nothing special. The only thing different about it was the absence of a window. A vent fan went on when a switch next to the light switch was flipped.

When he washed his hands Richie noticed that the blue porcelain sink wasn’t even very clean. There were small spots that looked like rust.

Drying his hands, Richie opened the shower door out of curiosity and peered inside. There was a wet towel on the tile floor in one corner, folded as if wrapped around something. Richie saw an edge of black peeking out of the folds. He thought immediately of the black gloves. Why—?

“Hurry it up, kid!” his father called. “Let’s get going.”

Richie eased the shower door closed and turned away as his father pushed the bathroom door open. “I’m ready,” Richie said, hanging up the towel on which he had dried his hands. He started to ask about what was in the shower but changed his mind. “I could eat a cow,” he said.