The Devil's Menagerie (31 page)

Braden had brooded in this quiet backwater for a year, Karen reflected, until the Foster–Rothleder killings galvanized him. He felt like a cop again. She wondered how much sleep he had had these past two weeks.

Stubborn, she thought again. He was unwilling to accept the fact—self-evident to her—that the San Carlos killer was the same one whose work Karen had encountered eight years ago in Germany. He—

The telephone startled her. She glanced at the digital bedside clock: 11:14
P.M.
at Quantico, and Buddy Cochrane was still at work. She wondered when he was going to slow down.

“You’re working late on a Saturday,” she observed.

“I just got back from testifying before the grand jury in Tuscaloosa. We’re getting an indictment there.”

“The serial killings?”

“Seventeen bodies uncovered so far. I suspect there may be more, but he’s had a change of heart and stopped talking. For a while, once he knew we had him, he was trying to save his soul, and he gave us some places to dig. Then he got scared, I guess.”

“He’s that rational?”

“He knew what he was doing,” Cochrane said after a brief pause. “How about your case? I hear you have another missing girl.”

“Yes … she disappeared from a Native American Indian festival at the local college last night … what they call a
powow
.“

“Friday again.”

“I know.”

“Our lab been any help? Franken in Hairs and Fibers said something about a match on the gloves your killer wears.”

“Yes, we have a make on the gloves. He left traces of leather between two of Natalie Rothleder’s teeth. They’re unusual—fine goatskin gloves, usually sold to gardeners. But they’re expensive. You can get them from Smith & Hawken, for example.”

“Then there shouldn’t be too many places to check,” Cochrane suggested hopefully.

“There’s a problem. The gloves are made in England, and they’re sold there and in Europe. The killer could have acquired them there—especially if, as I believe, he first started killing in Europe.”

Cochrane digested this in silence for a moment. Then he said, “What about the evidence he’s deliberately given you?”

“What would that be?”

“The initials.”

Karen was silent a moment. “I’ve played with them, tried to find a name or an acronym. LEN is a man’s name. Or NEL, for Nell. Do you think he could be spelling out a name?”

“What do you think?”

“I think it’s possible.”

“What’s the missing girl’s name?”

“Nancy Showalter. That doesn’t help. We’d have LENN, or any combination of those letters. But we don’t know yet—” She stopped, struck by something. She glanced toward the pile of reports, but before she could pursue the errant thought Cochrane said, “His ego is a potential weakness. He’s trying to say something without giving himself away, and thinks he’s clever enough to do it. Have you talked to the local authorities about going public with the initials? Someone might recognize what he’s up to.”

“Detective Braden wants to release it. So far the police chief and the sheriff are against it. They’re afraid of a citywide panic.”

“If you find another body, you’ll have the panic anyway.”

“I know.”

There was a brief silence. In it she felt the concern for her, and the passionate concern for the case she was working on, that defined Buddy Cochrane for her as a man and an FBI agent. “Take care of yourself,” he said softly. “He’s a monster. Don’t get in his way.”

“Not if I can help it.”

After another beat he said, “We’ve been holding back on sending in a full-scale FBI task force. If he does strike again, we’ll have to come out there in force.”

“That won’t make Braden happy.”

“Is that important?”

“It might be,” she said quietly.

R
ICHIE COULD NOT
take his eyes off the television screen.

He paid little attention to the sound. Aside from moaning and crying out, the men and women depicted in the videos had little to say to each other, and what they did say sounded artificial even to Richie’s ear. But the images were as graphic as a kick in the stomach.

He felt himself getting hot and excited. His heart pounded, his ears burned, and sometimes he felt dizzy. He couldn’t bring himself to look at his father reclining nearby in the La-Z-Boy armchair, drinking beer and chuckling.

Some of the scenes were disturbing in ways other than sexual. The people involved—men and women, and sometimes, to Richie’s surprise, women together—did not seem to like each other much in spite of their frenzied coupling. In the last video the naked woman had screamed and tried to get away, but the man, who had burst into her room at night, apparently surprising her, just laughed while he threw her down on the bed.

Richie had heard of such movies, of course—he could hardly miss seeing the Adults Only section at the local video store—but he had never actually
seen
one. He felt shame and embarrassment along with the excitement, but he couldn’t stop looking.

The man on the screen slapped the woman, hard, and she suddenly stopped screaming. Her wide eyes stared up at the naked, hairy-chested man. Then she reached for him …

Richie heard his father’s chuckle.

He felt himself getting hot again. He squirmed in his chair. His heart thumped so heavily he thought it was about to stop.

Ralph Beringer took another swig of beer and laughed aloud. “Time to grow up, Richie. Time to grow up.”

K
AREN SAT BOLT
upright in bed. She felt clammy with perspiration. She peeled off the sweaty T-shirt she had worn for sleeping and padded into the bathroom. Toweling off, she tried to recall what had awakened her. Not a sound, not a nightmare this time, but—

She moved quickly back into her room. Her briefcase was still open, file folders stacked against it. She snatched one of the folders and thumbed rapidly through the reports it contained.

She stopped at one, staring.

That was what had prodded her awake: a name.

She could be all wrong, especially if the missing coed, Nancy Showalter, turned up as another victim.

It was 2:21
A.M.
Buddy Cochrane had had a long day and night, probably hadn’t got home before midnight; 5:21
A.M.
there now.

She hesitated, sighed, then punched in a number. After four rings Cochrane’s recorded voice said, “No one is available to answer your call just now. If you will leave your name and number, and the purpose of your call—”

He interrupted himself, cutting off the recorded message. “Cochrane.”

“This is Special Agent Younger,” she said quickly. “I’m sorry to do this to you, sir, but—”

“Don’t apologize. It must be important.”

“I think it might be,” she said.

She explained how she wanted the parameters of the San Carlos name search to be extended through military and other records. She also added one new name to be run against all available lists.

“Care to tell me why?” Cochrane asked when she had finished.

When she explained, he was silent for a long moment. Then he said, “I’ll get on it now.”

The fact that it was still dark on a Sunday morning didn’t matter.

S
UNDAY WAS THE
worst day for Glenda Lindstrom. With each passing hour her fear increased. Why hadn’t they heard from Ralph? Where was Richie now?

In church that morning she found herself unable to pray. She went through the motions of the service numbly, sitting or standing or kneeling, aware of Elli beside her mimicking each move, of Dave silent and withdrawn.

Despair was the unforgivable sin—she couldn’t give in to it. At the same time she felt hypocritical on her knees, staring up at the altar, her purse on the bench seat beside her holding not a prayer book but a small automatic pistol.

Finally some words came. She prayed for forgiveness for what she might do. The words seemed hollow.

She would not let Ralph destroy her family. Would Christ condemn a mother who fought for her children, her husband, herself—against a monster?

At the end of the service, emerging into the bright sunshine of an unusually warm autumn day, she fought off a black cloud of despair.

“Are you okay?” Dave asked, worried.

“Let’s go home,” she said.

“S
URPRISE
,” R
ALPH
B
ERINGER
said.

Richie stared at his father, then past him in astonishment at the woman behind him, smiling broadly.

“Hi, Richie,” Iris Whatley said.

It was early Sunday evening. Beringer had gone out an hour earlier, telling Richie to stay inside and warning him not to go near the phone. He had promised something unexpected when he came back. Richie had even speculated that Beringer might be going to see his parents. The temptation to pick up the phone and call home was overwhelming, but he was nervous about his parents’ reaction. He knew he shouldn’t have gone off without telling them what he was up to. He wished …

He was no longer sure what he wished.

The day had gone badly. During breakfast at a mall coffee shop Beringer had been surly and uncommunicative, responding to Richie’s questions and comments curtly if at all, finally asking if Richie thought he could maybe keep his mouth shut for five minutes, just to see what it was like. When tears brimmed in Richie’s eyes, all he could read in his father’s stare was contempt. “You act like a goddam girl,” Beringer said.

Things had been no better through the afternoon. Richie had been grateful for the pro football game that sporadically kept his father’s attention. Even so, there had been periods when Beringer prowled the apartment like a lion in a cage at the zoo.

Finally he had gone out. Iris was his surprise—for Richie, a delightful one. Maybe his father would be in a better mood now, Richie hoped. Maybe they could have a good time together.

The waitress was very animated, talking in a voice that was higher pitched than Richie remembered, and giggling a lot, as if she were excited to be with them. They went out to Denny’s to eat, Iris talking all through the meal while Richie stared admiringly at her, the waitress saying what a treat it was to be taken out to dinner, usually she was the one doing the serving and all. She joked about having to remind herself not to jump up and grab the coffeepot. Beringer said little. After a while Richie realized that Iris was more nervous than he was—that was why she talked and laughed so much. Her nervousness showed in little sidelong glances at Ralph Beringer. She also touched him often, putting her hand on his arm, or letting her fingertips brush his shoulder. Beringer didn’t seem to notice.

It was dark when they returned to the apartment. Beringer had been silent in the car, but as soon as they were inside, the front door locked behind them, he told Richie, “Why don’t you go on into the bedroom, kid.”

“Uh … it’s early, uh, Dad. I mean—”

“Do what you’re told.”

H
E’S A GOOD
kid, I think you upset him,” Iris said when they were alone. Her lips pouted in mock rebuke. “We could have waited a little bit,” she added coquettishly.

“You think I give a shit what you think?” Ralph Beringer said.

He was in an ugly mood. He had been that way since the debacle Friday night with Nancy, his mood not improved by the circumstance that, for the next forty-eight hours, he had been stuck with the kid. It was one thing to tighten the screws on Glenda and her professor; it was another thing entirely to spend two days with a ten-year-old who didn’t know when to shut up and who, if you said boo to him, acted like a girl.

The experience with Nancy—so keenly anticipated—had gone badly. First the whimpering in his car like a little girl, the same way Richie acted—that was all she was, really, a little girl in this big, overblown, beautiful woman’s body. Then the sudden collapse that left Beringer frustrated, screaming with rage.

Once he had her in the car he had driven swiftly into the hills, knowing exactly where he was going. The girl blubbered and talked to herself, as if she were praying. Beringer realized she was talking to her parents. It was pathetic.

The regional park had been dark and deserted at that hour. Braking angrily in the empty parking area beneath the arms of a huge oak tree, Beringer had said, “Did you tell mommy and daddy how you were acting with your lover boy?”

Nancy went silent, her mouth open, eyes huge behind long wet lashes.

“You know what I’m talking about. Did you tell them about dressing like a whore, making sure everyone could see those big tits?”

“I … I don’t know what you mean.”

It was over in an instant.

When Beringer hit her she went slack, mushy, as if this big lovely girl was nothing more than an envelope of skin, an inflated doll he had accidentally punctured.

Enraged by the lack of resistance, he didn’t stop until his arms felt leaden, too heavy to lift. He went through his ritual, all of it, but there was none of the familiar, red-minded joy. He was left empty and disgusted, his rage unvented, still churning like a sickness in his belly.

It was like beating off alone in the dark all those years ago, while in the next room
she
howled and shrieked to climax with one of her transient friends …

“I’m out of here,” Iris said, staring at him as if she had never seen him before.

“You’re not going anywhere.”

“Who says? You?” Her bark of laughter was derisive.

Beringer regarded her quietly, unmoved. He was between her and the door. “Go on in there. The kid’s waiting.”

Iris stared at him in disbelief. “You’ve gotta be kidding!”

“He likes you, you like him. It’ll be good for him.”

“Does he know about this?” She was incredulous.

“Don’t worry, he’ll get the idea quick enough if you show him. He’s my son.”

“You’re sick!”

She tried to walk past him. Beringer grabbed her arm in the famous Beringer Pincer’s Bite. Her bicep was surprisingly hard. His brain recorded the fact with a flicker of surprise but without alarm.

“You’re goin’ in there, one way or another. Why not the easy way?