Where Serpents Lie (Revised March 2013)
Page 37
Hypok continued down the 55 to the 405, heading for Fashion Island, an outdoor mall in Newport Beach that had a pet store. He could kill two birds with one stone: get Loretta outfitted properly, and troll for Items right there in the mall until security threw him out for having a dog. If he explained he just bought the dog at the store, it might buy him a little leeway. Fashion Island was a ritzy place, not as crowded with kids and moms as a run-of-the-mill suburban mall, but it had some things going for it: (1) parking places very close to some of the store entrances, (2) dozens of entrances/exits as opposed to the limited number—usually four to six—found in an indoor mall, (3) the pet store, (4) an outdoor, relaxed, adult-oriented atmosphere that distracted parents with products and made them lax, (5) healthy, nutritionally advantaged Items, and (6) plenty of single guys around for cover. This time of day wasn’t a good one for Fashion Island, Hypok conceded, but if he didn’t have any luck by six-thirty, the movie theaters, amusement parks, stadiums and entertainment arenas would be heating up by then, as well as all those wonderful fast-food restaurants that featured playgrounds for the kiddies.
He cruised the parking lot near the Robinson’s/May store, a prime place to be if he got lucky. Circling the two best rows for the third time, Hypok suddenly felt a jolt of anger passing through him: a tensing of his muscles, a dimming of his vision, a huge desire to strike or throttle something living—the dog next to him, for instance—then it was gone as quick as it came on and he calmed himself with another swig of warm tequila as he waited for a fat-assed Japanese luxury sedan to vacate a space so he could pull in.
He ran a tender hand over Loretta’s tiny hairy head. She shivered. He licked his finger and offered it to her. Lick, lick. Ohhh …
Out of the van, lock the door, Loretta held to his side like a football. Just a few steps and he was into the sensual cloister of the mall, all perfume and product and groomed human beings, corporate America pandering to the bored and prosperous, Hypok’s natural instincts isolating the blonde with the stroller; the frizzy-haired brunette with a daughter on each hand checking the curios in the From Russia with Love booth; the portly third-world nanny guiding a young son and daughter behind a speeding mother who was already through the doors of the Express store offering 33 percent off swimwear and a buy-two-get-one-at-half-price deal on “summer casuals.” Hypok noted the five-year-old Item (red dress, ribbon in hair) nearly a hundred yards ahead of him; the seven-year-old (pink shorts, pink blouse) trailing its father into a department store; the four-year-old (denim pants and matching oversize jacket) standing alone by the leather sandal booth and looking very enticing indeed. He approached. He stopped about ten feet behind it. He set down Loretta and started cooing at her. She wiggled, jumped up to lick him, then began to wander away with a precarious sideways puppy canter that brought a smile to Hypok’s face.
“Loretta!” he ordered calmly. “Come back here, little girl!”
The four-year-old turned as if on command—they often responded to a masculine voice at that age, especially if their parents were already divorced—and it looked quickly at Hypok, then at Loretta. Its face broke into a smile bright and warm as a Death Valley sunrise. It slapped over to Loretta in its little sandaled feet and bent down, oversized jacket covering most of its pale, chubby legs. Dinosaur Band-Aid, lower right calf, freshly applied, no peripheral dirt buildup yet. Loretta was jumping up to lick the Item. Her tail wagged over her back. Hypok sighed and walked over to them, taking a knee a few feet away to watch the precious Item/canine encounter. He looked directly at them from behind his sunglasses, showing no interest at all in who—if anyone—might be the Item’s keeper. Loretta sprang up and down like a ball attached to a rubber band attached to a paddle. She scooted away. The Item lunged after her and fell to its knees: white thighs, a flash of something whiter between them. Loretta wiggled toward it. Hypok knelt on one knee with his left elbow resting on his kneecap and a hard, ferocious heat annealing his guts. Something of Valeen and Collette in this one, he thought, in the way its eyes shine. He doubted if this Item had the unabashed carnal curiosities of his older sisters at age, say, ten, but that was hardly the point. There were ways around that little problem. Then, the almost inevitable happened. Hypok sensed it before he saw or heard it, and he knew exactly what it was. Suddenly, a large intrusive figure barged into his field of vision and squatted down next to the Item and Loretta. It was like a dark cloud passing over the sun. Human male: forty-something, polo shirt, shorts and deck shoes, no socks, one of those come-late-to-familihood dads who were a whole lot more vigilant about their brood than the twenty-something kids who started early. He was actually gray haired. He looked at Hypok with a neutral expression, nodded, then reached out to the puppy. Loretta dropped her flag of a tail and cowed, then approached him reverently. He pet her. She peed. Hypok moved up and forward and swept the still dribbling Loretta up into his arms. He smiled down at father and Item.
“Be careful of the wee-wee,” he said. He expected security to lock onto him at this point. Things felt wrong.
“Come on, Lauren,” said the old gray-haired, idiotically dressed daddy boy.
Hypok moved toward the pet store. Another Lauren, he thought. Chloe, Lauren, Jessica, Joy, Tiffany, Charlie: when will Americans stop naming their daughters after perfumes?
On to the pet store now, Hypok carrying Loretta under his left arm, scanning the shoppers for Items—a little redheaded siren by the bookstore; a plump temptress walking with its plump mother, same chunky legs, a miniature version of the physical mold it’d come from; a sultry, pouting Item of perhaps twelve—too old, but that looked brazenly at him as he passed by and he caught the aroma of perfume and shampoo coming off it. Into the store, a brief notification of the clerk concerning his intentions, then to the collar rack, way down at the bottom where the smallest ones hung upon display hooks and he brought out a pink, a yellow and a blue for Loretta to sniff as if the tiny fool really cared what color she wore. He picked a light blue one that sort of fit, though a long piece of it protruded beyond the buckle when it was snug enough not to slip over and off Loretta’s head. He picked a leash to match it. In the food section he found a small box of puppy treats for very small dogs. At the cash register he paid with one of the twenties given to him by the harpy at the animal shelter, the bill a limp but direct descendant of the crisp hundreds paid to him by a perverted cop who couldn’t live without pictures of himself and girls not yet into puberty. What a world. The woman at the checkout counter was big and horsy looking, perhaps nineteen. When she smiled she looked like John Elway with long hair. She pet Loretta with an enormous freckled hand.
“She’s so cute.”
“For my daughter, Nan.”
The Denver QB stared hard at him. Ready to call an audible at the line, Hypok imagined.
“Are you on TV?” she asked Hypok.
“No, I’m in advertising. Billboards, actually.”
“You look like someone I know.”
“And you look like someone I know, too, but I can’t think who.”
“Probably that football player,” she said, smiling and looking down. “That’s what all the guys say, anyway.”
“Say good-bye, Loretta.”
“Loretta! That’s my mom’s name. ’Bye, Loretta!”
Back into the evening now, the darkness complete, the lights of the shops bright and alluring as diamonds, the dog collared and leashed, flouncing back and forth in front of him. Past the gleaming storefronts and the central courtyard, past the benches and the planters and the fish pond, through the booths again, winding through Fashion Island like a snake on a prowl, alert to danger and opportunity, attuned to every odor on the breeze and every nuance from the bodies of the mammals all around him, Hypok himself the head of the serpent, the ultraviolet eye, the heat pit sensor, the aroma-gathering tongue, the collating brain in a secret hunt among the privileged and prosperous, the harried and the careless, the vain and the ignorant, the innocent and the pure.
Hypok receiving: two twelve-year-olds unattended and perilously brash looked his way with admiring eyes, old as they were it sent a ripple of electricity up his back. A tandem stroller for two-year-old twins in pink, just a hair too young. A petite Indian girl in a sari, dark and mysterious as the Ganges of which Hypok was reminded, picturing crocodiles taking down Hindu bathers in diapers and turbans.
Then, his senses all ratcheted up a full degree and his breathing shortened as a five-year-old pigtailed seductress in overalls and black tennies spotted Loretta and angled straight toward her, its hair tawny brown in the lights, its arms thin, its face a littoral of light and shadow but a mask of pure happiness to be sure, white teeth and red lips and eyes dark as tidepools at midnight—an Item so absolutely perfect and compelling that Hypok’s breath shallowed out to almost nothing, snagging against his throat like a skiff on a Key West flat, and he breathed in deeply now and fumbled for his cinnamon drops as he knelt and fed out leash so Loretta could wobble out to greet this radiant, approaching Item.
He watched the Item sit cross-legged, with Loretta climbing all over its lap. The Item grabbed the puppy’s head gently, steadied it while looking into Loretta’s face, then kissed her on the nose.
“You smell good!”
Its voice was thin and high and very clear, made you feel like you were breathing mountain air, or amyl nitrite poppers.
“Her name’s Loretta,” he managed.
Breathe in. Breathe out. Expand lungs. Relax.
The Item looked at him for the first time, and Hypok knew that its first reaction to him would make it gettable or not. He waited like a disciple for a miracle, or a revelation from his master. Then, an ocean of warm optimism rolled through him when it smiled and said, “Mine’s Ruth.”
Ruth! A genuine name! The Book of Ruth!
“Here,” he said, “you can offer her a reward.”
“What did she do?”
“She’s being nice to you.”
Hypok cracked open the box of doggie treats and held one—shaped like a tiny hot dog—out toward the Item. It leaned forward, still sitting, still smiling, and took the biscuit.
Loretta got a whiff of it and jumped toward the Item’s hand, then tried to climb its arm.
“She’s hungry!”
“Hold the treat over her head, tell her to sit, and tug gently on the leash.” Hypok felt the warm, surging seas inside him starting to settle and solidify. The breeze against his ears suddenly felt cool and instructional: get it to the van. “Tug gently on the leash.”
When Loretta felt the tug, she wheeled left, then right, trying to locate her torment. Then she stopped, looked up at the Item’s lowering hand and leaped, snatching the treat midair and dropping it to the ground. She whirled around, trying to find it through all her hair.
“Ohhh!”
“That’s all right, Ruth. She’s got a lot to learn. Just like her brothers and sisters.”
“How many puppies do you have?”
“Well, there’s Mommy, Daddy and five others. Loretta is the happy one, because she knows she’s staying with me and her parents. The others are sad. So I left them in my car.”
“Sad why?”
“I’m taking them to the shelter. Hopefully, they’ll find homes, but you never know. Puppies understand that kind of thing. They understand when they’re safe and when they’re not.”
“Ohhh. That’s sad.”
“It’s very sad. It breaks my heart, actually. So I stopped here to get a box of treats for them all. I’m just looking for excuses not to drive to that animal shelter.”
“I wish I could take them.”
“I doubt your parents would be very happy about that.”
“No. We have a cat.”
“Where are your mom and dad, by the way?”
Ruth looked at him, then turned and pointed to a crowded restaurant lobby. The place was packed—people standing outside, inside, everywhere. “Getting dinner to go.”
It looked like a long wait.
“Which ones?” he asked.
“Oh, they’re in there somewhere. We do this every Friday. They let me watch the fountain because it takes so long, and Daddy can have wine, but he can’t bring it down here.”
Loretta had rolled onto her back while the Item scratched the dog’s hairy little belly.
“You know, I’ll bring the box out, and you and your mom and dad can at least look at the others,” he said. “No harm in that, I guess. Who knows?”
The Item smiled again, lifting Loretta up into its arms and staring into her hidden puppy face. “Could I have this one?”
“She’s mine! But I’ll let you see the others. All right?”
“Great!”
Hypok stood and walked toward the Item, bending down to take Loretta.
“Can’t she wait with me?”
“Well, I should keep her in my sight.”
“But I’ll watch her.”
“No … I really can’t let her be away from me like that. Let’s see … why don’t you … you know, my car is just right over there, so if you want to take the leash and walk her for me, that would be okay.”
“Can’t leave the fountain, Dad says.”
“Well, that’s understandable,” he said, softly.
Hypok set Loretta down and held the leash. The Item looked sadly at the puppy. He said nothing for a long, punishing moment.
“Actually, I won’t be able to bring them out, I guess, because I have to carry the box, too. Someone else would have to take Loretta.”
He smiled, then offered his most contrite and penitent expression. It was good enough to make God believe him. He held out the leash.
“It’s right over there. We’ll probably be back before your dad even gets his wine.”
The Item smiled too, and stood, then scampered toward his outstretched hand, reaching for the leash.
“Let’s go fast now,” he said.
“Come on.”
“I’m right behind you.”
A quick pivot of scaled head toward the restaurant lobby: a chaos of happy, hungry humans, the smell of food, white lights against the blue-black springtime sky of Southern California.
Ruth!
THIRTY
You stand in a room where a person was murdered hours ago and the room feels different than others. It feels ashamed. It feels violated. It feels guilty. You tell yourself it’s just in your mind, that you’re projecting yourself into the space, but places like that are different, even if you can’t tell why. They scream, but the scream is silent. They offer proof, but the proof is hidden. They wait for you to make things right. So you listen, and you look and you hope.
I’d gotten out of the department building as soon as I could, after reorganizing some of the CAY task force responsibilities and huddling briefly with Wade over the question of the media and my new exonerated status. We decided not to hold a press conference and not to release the story through Public Information just yet, hoping that The Horridus would continue his computer transactions with me. There was only a small chance that he would, we agreed, but it was a chance worth taking. There was still a small chance, too, that Vinson Clay over at PlaNet would do the right thing and finger I. R. Shroud for us—if I could get him back on the line. The Bureau had talked to Vinson, throwing their weight behind our plea. For myself, I would simply remain for a few more days as the accused child molester I had been, with few people outside the department much the wiser. Easy. At my insistence, The Horridus task force room was going to be staffed twenty-four hours a day with investigators and deputies assigned directly to the case. I had the feeling that The Horridus was about to rampage soon: he struck and failed and he wasn’t going to wait another thirty days to try again.
Wade, uneasy at the prospect of what might happen, agreed to keep the force working around the clock.
“The proac
tion was dangerous,” he said bluntly. “We got a mother killed.”
“We didn’t kill her,” I answered bluntly back.
“But if we’d left things well enough alone, Terry?”
“With The Horridus out there, sir, things will never be well enough.”
He sighed. “All right.”
Then he got up and closed the door to his office. You could see the heads turning again. He didn’t even bother to sit down.
“I’m hearing the rumors. You think somebody here had those photos made up?”
I told him I was sure of it: I. R. Shroud had been the supplier—perhaps the creator—and someone using my Web name, Mal, had made the purchase.
“Who?” he asked.
“Ishmael talked to Shroud thirty-two times in the last seventy-four days. I’ve got that from two different sources, sir, and it’s easy enough to check out.”
“How would he know your Web name?”
“It’s not a secret around here. I’ve written it down a dozen times at least, in my reports. Hell, Frances and Louis have both used Mal to lurk in the chat rooms. Ish could pick it up without working too hard.”