False Gods

by W. Glenn Duncan Jr.

  But why? It wasn’t like she needed the money.

  Anastasia was the only child of Peter and Danika Buver, residents of the Hollywood Hills since their emigration from Hungary in the mid-thirties. The background didn’t detail Peter’s rise to his current position as head of DGO Studios (Danilowicz Goldberg Oskar) but Don’s assessment of Ana’s father as “some hotshot studio guy” was understated. This guy was connected, and seriously rich. Snowy’s report had the Buver family’s net worth pegged somewhere north of twenty million, five years earlier.

  I’d be surprised if Snowy didn’t want to use him as a new benchmark. Also if that estimate was anywhere close to reality. Snowy’s intel was good, but not even he could find what wasn’t meant to be found. I figured that Ana was sitting on an inheritance of anywhere between thirty and fifty mil, depending on how paranoid her father was about his pennies.

  It was probable that Peter was still working his way through the studio hierarchy when Ana was young but she’d still grown up in a rare environment. Hollywood had some class back then, not yet having become the rendezvous for kooks and the over-privileged that it is today, but ever since the movie business rolled into town it’s been the enclave of the rich and beautiful.

  More research into her high school and college years could make sure, but I’d bet that they were both filled with students from similar homes and backgrounds. Not people I would have picked as religious zealots. Snowy’s document stated that the Buver family attended temple and publicly donated to a small clutch of organizations. Nothing more. No mention of youth group for Ana. No missions to Africa or building houses in Burma. No fundraising to provide food relief to Kampuchea.

  Why the interest in founding a church? And what happened when she met Dariell to kick them off on this new path?

  The coffee wasn’t answering, but I signaled Lisa for another one just in case.

  You can’t be too careful.

  Chapter 16

  The next few days were quiet.

  Not the premonitionary calm-before-the-storm, just the general tedium associated with performing necessary tasks.

  Days that made me happy I didn’t pursue a career in accounting.

  It wasn’t just me. Hilda was still deep in cataloging the Morgan estate. Not sexy work for her, either, but as she said over dinner one night, “It just needs to be done. I can bitch about it, but once I’ve finished complaining, the work is still there to be finished.”

  That sounded like something she hoped I could learn from but I was distracted by the curve of her arm as she sipped her chardonnay. To be more specific, how the curve of her arm flowed into her shoulder, danced as a shadow across her clavicle and became a line which swooped down to trace the curve of her breast.

  Did I forget to mention we were eating take-out on a rug in front of the fire at her house? Naked? I may have been distracted.

  “You haven’t listened to anything I’ve said, have you, Rafferty?”

  “Huh? Sure I have. Work, something yada yada, bitch, yada yada, still be done. Something like that.”

  I was also trying to drink beer from the bottle without lifting my head. Or spilling.

  It’s fair to say I was almost maxed out.

  Hilda leaned over and while I watched the firelight do wonderful things to the light and shadows on her body, she punched me in the arm. I slopped beer onto my chest.

  “Hell. My no-hitter ruined.”

  “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “Never mind.” I propped myself up on an elbow. “I know you can separate yourself from what you’re doing, and grind on through to get the work done.” I sighed. “It doesn’t work that way for me, hon. When I get frustrated, I need to get rid of that feeling. Yelling at, or better yet, punching someone works well. Chasing punks, on foot, or preferably in the car, also helps. But this case is as boring as batshit and I can feel myself getting ready to snap.”

  I went back to sipping my beer.

  “Are you worried about not being able to figure this one out?”

  That hurt more than the punch in the arm.

  I sipped again and Hilda smiled in the flickering glow. At that second, if I’d been forced to believe in a heaven, I was already there.

  “Rafferty?” She sipped, eyes on me. The chardonnay swirled and sparkled in her glass and her eyes followed suit.

  “Kimberly.” I blew out a breath. “I have to find her. Hell, I think I already have, but that doesn’t mean I know where she is.” I rolled onto my back and stared at the ceiling. “Arghh.”

  Hilda came in close, nestled against me and traced her fingers along the old knife scar high up on my chest.

  “Have patience, my ugly beloved. It’s not over yet. Kimberly couldn’t have anyone better looking for her. And if there ever was a modern man destined to slay dragons and rescue maidens, it’s my Sir Rafferty.”

  “If milady proclaims me as her humble knight why thence was she the one sitting astride the white stallion?”

  “Hmm, why indeed?” She continued to trace those beautiful fingers.

  It was a little later when I remembered.

  “That’s why,” she breathed into my ear.

  I called Snowy next morning while the coffeepot perked to thank him for the research.

  “What are you getting yourself involved with this time, Rafferty?” he said. “I looked at the background Max prepared on those two people.”

  “What aren’t you telling me, Snowy?”

  “Me?” I imagined him with wide eyes, clasping his hand to his chest, as if I’d caught him with his fingers in the cash register. Or someone else’s wife.

  “Don’t play coy with me, Snowy.” I dropped my voice a tone. “If there’s anything you know, I’d like to hear it.”

  “And if I knew anything, you would be the first for me to tell, Rafferty. I promise you that. All I know is that this type of people, from that background and money, they do not play by the same rules that you and I play by.”

  I didn’t correct him on including me in “his type of people.” It was a hell of a compliment.

  “Thanks for the heads up, Snowy.”

  “As usual, it is my pleasure.” Now it was his turn to drop his voice. “You be careful, Rafferty.” I promised him I would.

  Thought about calling Austin to talk with Lucy. I didn’t want to leave it much longer, but was it still too soon?

  The phone rang, almost as if in answer to my (no! stop that bullshit line of thinking right now!) …

  I picked it up. “Lucy.”

  A pause.

  “Umm, yeah. Mr Rafferty?”

  “This is he.”

  “How’d you know it was me?”

  “I’m a detective, remember. It’s what I do.”

  “Oh. Okay.”

  I was glad that I’d fooled her. I wasn’t as certain as I hoped I sounded.

  “Lucy?”

  “Yeah?” Another pause and an intake of breath as she inhaled on a cigarette.

  “You called me.”

  “Oh yeah.” Another inhale. “Don and I have been talking.”

  I had starting packing a pipe by that point, which helped distract me from thinking about ripping Don’s heart out through his chest.

  “Uh huh.”

  “Are you closer to finding Kimberly?”

  I hadn’t spoken to Kathy-Lee in a couple of days. I expected she would call me if she heard anything new. That made me think I should call the Garrisons again, on the unlikely chance they’d heard from Kimberly, but for the moment I would sit on what I knew for sure.

  “I’ve dug up a bit of extra information on Dariell and Ana’s background. That’s all.”

  “Okay. Well, we, you and I, need to talk.” Inhale. Exhale. “Don thinks I can help you by telling you about my time in the … the church. I’m not sure if I can, Mr Rafferty and, to be honest, I’m scared to try. I haven’t even told Don everything about what went on and I’m just trying to put it all behind me …�
�� Inhale. Exhale. Pause. The sound of a flicked lighter followed by a long exhale. “But … but if it helps this girl … if it helps any of the girls, I’ll do what I can.”

  Silence filled the line so I ventured forth. I tried for understanding and I may have got it this time.

  “That’s brave, Lucy, and I know Kimberly would think so, too. You name the time and place.”

  “Umm.”

  Inhale. Exhale.

  Pause.

  “Hilda can come too,” I said, “if it helps.”

  “That would be great,” she said. A little shyly, I thought. “And I’d like to do this without Don there. Because … oh this is embarrassing …” Inhale. Exhale. “He’s a sweet guy, Rafferty and I don’t want him to hear this stuff, okay?”

  I was certain that no matter what Don heard, he’d be alright, but that wasn’t my call to make.

  “Sure,” I said.

  “Can I drive up and see you and Hilda in the next few days?”

  “Sure.”

  “I’ll confirm with the VA which day, and then I’ll give you a call back to let you know.” Inhale. Exhale. “Okay?”

  “Sure.” I’m a conversational wizard at times.

  “Okay. I’ll see you then. Thanks, Mr Rafferty.”

  “Sure.”

  After Lucy hung up, I backtracked and talked to Kimberly’s and Brian’s mothers, both ensconced in their matching, opposite homes. Neither had heard from Kimberly in the last few days, and both took the opportunity to give me a roasting about my telephonic habits: Helen for calling at all, “Brian is trying to forget about that whoring girl,” and Kathy-Lee for not calling every day, “Is this extended silence the way you treat every client, Mr Rafferty? I hope not otherwise your business won’t be successful.”

  I looked around the office, pictured the Mustang, and its appurtenant McLeod debts, leaning against the curb outside and thought Kathy-Lee had nailed that one dead center.

  Soldiered on and gave her a summary on the new information I had to hand. Even talked about the upcoming meeting with, “a contact on the inside whose name I’m not at liberty to divulge yet.” She seemed mollified by the time we finished, and I did make a mental note about calling more often.

  My outgoing call schedule notwithstanding, she didn’t know that I was thinking about her daughter night and day—to the point of having dreams, for fuck’s sake.

  I wasn’t about to tell her, either.

  I massaged my ear, packed another pipe, got it blazing away and stood up to open the window. The sun blazed clear but the temperature had started down and a wedge of clouds lined up on the horizon.

  Performed my Fred Astaire routine around the phone book piles and thought again about putting them away. Later.

  This time, at least I avoided the desk corner.

  I blew smoke at the ceiling, watched it get dragged toward the window. Thought about the church’s property empire and how the rotation of visitors to Club Dariell might be managed.

  If he was as controlling as Don thought, Dariell would probably want to keep his followers locked into a pre-determined environment, stop the chance of them thinking for themselves.

  Which aligned nicely with the logical conclusion from Snowy’s note, that Dariell had been shepherding his flock around the country from compound to compound. I hoped this was the case.

  The world outside, with all its messages and temptations, would represent a constant threat to whatever salvation he was preaching. He would want to minimize all time the congregation spent beyond the safety of closed doors and be the only person telling them what to think and do. To expose them to the ideas of anything else would be too much of a risk for Dariell.

  I put the lighter to the pipe bowl again and sucked in a few lungfuls of fragrant smoke.

  Now, I also had to hope that he hadn’t secured property that Don and Snowy hadn’t found. If that was the case, Kimberly could be anywhere.

  Or she could already be dead.

  I needed to be realistic, but I also could only work with what was in front of me. If she was dead, there was nothing I could do to change that. In the meantime, I needed to start somewhere.

  It took ten minutes poring over a battered five-year old Rand-McNally Road Atlas of the USA to find the town of Lincoln TX, in Jones County, a few clicks north of Abilene.

  Not surprising it took that long. With a nineteen-eighty census population of three hundred and seventy-eight, I could’ve been standing at the city limits sign and still had trouble seeing such a thriving metropolis.

  Let’s face it, Lincoln was the one-horse town.

  I dived back into the Road Atlas to check the other addresses and found references to similarly barren areas of Washington and North Dakota.

  So I knew where the town of Lincoln was. The location of Private Road 5150 could still be anywhere within three or four hundred square miles around the town.

  I closed the atlas, threw it onto one of the phone book stacks and bashed the dead pipe ashes into the artillery shell ashtray on my desk.

  The phone rang again.

  It was Lucy confirming tomorrow for her trip to Dallas. I told her that was fine and I looked forward to seeing her again.

  With the amount of phone traffic I’d had that morning, I thought I’d better do something to cope with the workload.

  I turned off the lights, locked the door and went to lunch.

  Chapter 17

  Hilda and I sat opposite each other in a booth at Rush. Lisa fussed behind the sparkling coffee machine and greeted everyone who opened the door. For years I’d thought that the diner had been named for the shiny railway carriage premises, but it could also be attributed to Lisa’s constant movement and verbal stream. Having noticed the volume of her coffee consumption in the twenty minutes since Hil and I sat down, I was more convinced it was the latter.

  Hilda sipped coffee and placed her cigarette in the ashtray. She reached out and grabbed my hand with both of hers.

  “I know you can help these girls, Rafferty.”

  “Girls?”

  “Kimberly and Lucy.” She exhaled. “Those girls. Letting Lucy tell her story will help her. Whether she’ll tell you that or not.” She saw my expression. “What did you think I meant?”

  “Not sure. Lucy said the same thing on the phone. ‘The girls.’ But I don’t know what she meant.”

  “Maybe it doesn’t mean anything. Either way, there are two girls you’re helping here. Don’t forget that.”

  I sipped my coffee and scowled. “As long as I can help the one who asked for it.”

  “Don’t scowl, hon. It ruins your rugged good looks.” She winked at me.

  I heard a car door slam, looked into the gray light outside, and saw Lucy also scowling as she walked from a blue GM four-door up the steps to the diner. The bells on the door tinkled as she swung it open and waited, looking around.

  “Hey there, darlin’,” shouted Lisa as she played the coffee machine orchestra. “Have y’self a seat and I’ll be right over.”

  Lucy nodded, turned and saw us. Her face broke open in a grinning combination of relief and nerves. She hefted the flower bag back up to her shoulder, walked down the aisle, slid into the booth alongside Hilda and let go a breath.

  “I’m glad you’re here. The whole drive I was thinking again about this, almost sure you were going to let me down.”

  “Rafferty won’t let you down, Lucy,” Hilda said and shot me a look which said I’d be in big trouble if I ever did.

  I nodded and sipped coffee. It seemed the best thing to do right then.

  Lisa zipped to our table and took Lucy’s order. Confirmed repeats for Hilda and me.

  While Lisa was shooming the coffee machine to life, Hilda and Lucy got the small talk out of the way: Don was great; he doesn’t know I’m here; yes, I’m still enjoying the work at the VA. That kind of thing.

  Me?

  I did one of the things I do best. I fired up a pipe. I also did what I sometimes don’
t do well at all.

  I shut up.

  The coffee arrived. “Jes’ shout out if y’all need anythin’ else, y’hear,” Lisa said and rushed back behind the counter. After the caffeine was on its way into our systems and Lucy had lit a cigarette, I thought it was time to start.

  “Lucy. You said you had more to tell me.” I tilted my head at Hilda. “To tell us.”

  She nodded and the tip of her cigarette glowed.

  “There’s so much to tell,” she said. “I’m not sure where to start.”

  “At the beginning,” Hilda said. “How long were you in the church?”

  Lucy nodded to herself—I can do that—and drew more smoke into her lungs.

  “Three years in Washington and two at the North Dakota compound,” she said to the space over my head, “before I got free last year. But the whole thing started five years earlier that. We were living in San Diego, and Mom and Dad got involved in this new church. Back then, it was nice. Friendly and fun. Not like it became later.”

  Lucy sipped her coffee, smoked and offered up a wistful smile.

  “It wasn’t even really a church. Just a group of friends getting together a couple of times a week to share their faith and support each other. The moms would bring stews or pies and the dads would grill hotdogs and roast corn. The kids would run around, playing catch or chasing each other. I was thirteen.”

  Another smile into the distance.

  “After everyone had eaten and chatted we would all sit down together. One of the adults would read from their bible and people would talk about what the passage meant to them. Other times, one of the adults would talk about a problem they had.”

  “Like what?” Hilda asked.

  Lucy lit a fresh cigarette and gave a nod. That one that smokers give when they want to respond but happen to be busy inhaling and will be with you in a second.

  “Umm … oh one night Rhonda was there without her husband. That wasn’t odd, since he didn’t come to all the groups. On this night she had been quiet since turning up, and that was odd, ‘cause she was one of the loudest women in the group.