Keeper of the Children
William H. Hallahan
CHAPTER 1
At dusk the lane was still empty. Renni was now three hours late.
Susan Benson lit the downstairs lamps and removed the two steaming pots from the range. The odor of spaghetti sauce filled the kitchen. She sat down before one of the three place settings and looked through the window toward the gate light at the end of the lane.
A few minutes later her nine-year-old son, Top, hurried down from his room and stared at her. “Not yet?”
Susan sighed. “We might as well eat without her, Top. Here. Sit down.” She arose with a last look at the gate light. “Did she say anything to you?”
“No, Mom. She’s with that jerk Pammy somewhere.”
“The spaghetti’s a bit soggy, Top.”
Top showered the spaghetti with grated Parmesan cheese and ate eagerly. “This is her favorite dish,” he said.
“That’s why I made it. Special request.”
“Then where is she?”
“I don’t know, Top.”
“She’s never late for spaghetti.”
“She’s never late for anything, Top.”
Lit by the gate lamp, the lane was still empty when darkness closed in completely, and with it came a cold, searching wind that brushed against the house. Renni had only a light jacket with her.
“If you see her at that basketball game, you call me, Top.”
He nodded as he left. It was just seven o’clock.
Susan Benson watched him walk down the lane to the gate, disappearing into the darkness on the unpaved roadway which led to the village. The commuter train from Philadelphia sounded a short warning at the crossing.
She cleared the dishes, the table settings; she stored the now-cold spaghetti sauce. Then she sat in the kitchen chair to continue her work on the marionette’s dress. A little later she mounted the stairs to Renni’s bedroom and snapped on the light. Each puppet, each marionette hung on its own peg on the wall above and around the puppet stage, maintaining a conspiratorial silence as though she had interrupted their whispered gossip. The largest marionette, a three-foot witch—Signora Strega—dangled from her strings, her head turned, offering Susan a cross-eyed grin of mockery.
Susan stood at Renni’s bedroom window and looked again at the gate lamp. She smoothed the counterpane on the bed, glanced once more at the silent jury of suspended dolls and went back downstairs. At least, no runaway note was pinned to a pillow. At least, not that.
Top came in at nine-thirty. He was alone. Renni was six and a half hours late. Susan put aside her pride and called Pammy’s home. There was the usual evening slur in Mrs. Garman’s speech as she informed Susan that she had no idea where the girls were. Susan pictured the woman’s hand gripping her iced vodka, saw, too, her billowing bosom and rheumy eyes, those sore, dissipated eyes that always seemed to have just finished weeping.
“They’ll turn up, Mrs. Benson. They always do. I’m surprised that Renni hasn’t called you, though. After all, you do have such a nice relationship with your daughter, Mrs. Benson. Well, you can be sure they’re together. Wherever Renni goes, Pammy is sure to follow.”
“I thought it was the other way around, Mrs. Garman. In any case, I think we should call the police. They’re only fourteen.”
“If you want to. I’m sure Pammy will be along pretty soon. Maybe they went to the basketball game.”
Susan cut the conversation off and sat down once more. Oh, Renni, Renni, I told you so many times to stay away from that family.
She began a series of hopeless, humiliating phone conversations with Renni’s classmates.
“I see. Then you didn’t see her after third period this morning? Well, if you do see her—oh well, never mind. I’m sure she’ll be home soon.” And: “At three? You saw Renni and Pam in the village at three this afternoon. What were they doing?”
At ten she called the police. Formal, correct, polite police.
Top lit a candle and put it on the kitchen table.
“What’s that for, Top?”
“That’s what they did in a book. A cowboy got lost in a snowstorm and they put a candle in the window for him. You can see it for miles on the prairie.”
Susan Benson glanced at his face—Mr. Worrywart—and hugged him. “She’ll be all right, Top. She’ll turn up. You get ready for bed.”
The moon rose, nearly full, lopsided through the bare, swaying trees. It seemed caged, then mournfully mounted the star-filled sky, casting a dead-white light on the lane. It was getting colder outside.
She had been sitting for some time, staring at the lane light, when Swaggers, the cocker spaniel, put his head on her lap and distracted her. She felt that somehow, if she watched the lane diligently enough, she could make Renni appear.
But what appeared was a cat. Trailing a low tail, it jogged across the lane. It paused, turned its head, gazed at the house, at the window, at, it seemed, the candle itself and passed. The Bensons’ dog issued a low growl and went back to sleep.
Susan got Renni’s sewing kit, lifted out the half-finished gown for the marionette—Mrs. Peenerbudder Angeli—and resumed hand-sewing the gathering of the bodice. In the distance, out on the county highway through the leafless trees, she could see the passing head lamps, small, truant moons. Any one of them could be carrying Renni home. Or away.
After a while Susan laid aside the sewing. Her hands were trembling and her fingers were cold and cramped. She put a cardigan sweater over her shoulders, then busied herself brewing some tea. The hot cup warmed her hands.
“Please,” she said to the ceiling.
After midnight she stopped watching the car head lamps. The cat returned, crossed the path again and paused under the feeble gate lamp, attracted by the candle. From its mouth dangled a young rabbit that kicked limply. Susan watched the cat carry the rabbit, watched it until it was a faint shadow scurrying down the road under hedges.
She wondered who would be the next to come up that path. Renni? The postman with an “I’m here” postcard from Fort Lauderdale, Florida? The police?
The seeking moon had ascended and passed across the sky when she put her head down on her arms and fell into a fitful sleep.
Shortly after, the spent candle went out, leaving Susan Benson alone in the dark. It was 3 A.M.
“What’s that, Eddie?” Molloy was pointing at the canvas flight bag under the airline seat.
“What?”
“That. Whatever it is sticking out of your flight bag.”
Eddie Benson reached down and took from the canvas bag a nest of white tissue paper. He lay it on his lap and opened it. Then, from the paper, on marionette’s strings, rose a delicate, beautifully detailed Juliet in a long gown. She dangled above his lap, turning on her strings, seeking Romeo.
Molloy studied it curiously. “Where’d you get it?”
“When we were in Verona.”
“Verona.” A smirk. “You got a doll and I got a doll. Only mine was real. That for your daughter?”
“Yep. Wait till she sees it.” He lowered the doll back to the tissue paper and wrapped it around her.
“I’d never give anything like that to my four screamers. Wouldn’t last five minutes. By the way—coins. I promised foreign coins.”
“Too late. I gave all mine away at the hotel.”
“To those gook kids? Hell, they’re nothing but professional beggars, Eddie. Never give them money. Let the little bastards go to work. I hate beggars—even little ones.”
“They’re just kids.”
“Kids, my eye. If the roles were reversed, do you think they’d give you anything?”
Benson shrugged and looked down at the Atlantic Ocea
n far below him.
“You can’t see the world through a camera lens, Eddie. I mean, after all, I like film work as much as you do, but if you look for answers in a camera, all you’re going to get is a permanent one-eyed squint. You ought to think more about the world you’re in.”
“There are no tender spots in you anywhere, are there?”
“Tender spots! Look who’s talking. Just because I’m not a meatball like you around kids? Come on. I’ve seen you in action on the set, buddy. Tell you one thing: When you get going, I wouldn’t want to be your enemy.”
Benson dragged his bags off the customs inspection counter and walked toward the wall sign that said “Welcome to Philadelphia.” He leaned through the metal swinging doors under the sign and searched the crowd for three beaming faces. Amid the usual knots of hugging, squealing, kissing people, he saw their faces; but there were only two, and both solemn.
As he approached, he saw Sue’s face clearly and was shocked: she looked gaunt and tired. He decked his bags and touched his boy’s head. “Hi, Top.” He kissed his wife and felt the tension in her grip as she held his arms.
“Where’s Renni?”
Top said, “She’s been kidnapped.”
The shuffling of so many feet, the cries of greeting, the announcements on the loudspeaker system all made it difficult for Benson to hear Sue’s low-pitched, exhausted voice. She seemed perpetually close to tears, yet as he led her out of the terminal, away from the distracting noise, he sensed the deep anger that kept her from weeping.
“This man, Eddie. The head of it. He’s an Oriental or an Indian or something—he has a couple dozen of these children under his control. He sends them out every day in a group to beg all over the city.”
“Beg? They’re begging and Renni’s with them?”
“Yes. Renni. And that Pammy.”
“He’s got both of them?”
“Yes.”
“How did he get them? I mean—are you sure they didn’t voluntarily—”
“Oh, Eddie. It was the last thing on her mind. She didn’t plan it. Just before she left for school—at breakfast, in fact—she accepted an invitation to put on a puppet show at the community center. She was very excited about it. And she asked me to make spaghetti. She was full of all kinds of plans. “I’ll never believe … she would never … There’s no question—she’s been kidnapped.”
“Okay. Okay. I have to ask you. How did he get them?”
“I don’t know. I’ve been going in circles for days trying to get help. I’ve been to the police, the courts, the school. I’ve been up and down hallways everywhere trying to get help. There’s a man, Custis—he’s the father of one of the boys in the group—and he’s formed a parents’ committee, and they have a plan to get the children away from this man. He wants to see you today. But you have … I mean, he’s in and out of his office and you have to call and—”
He felt her body shaking and held her closer. Top solemnly watched her in his father’s arms and took her hand. A raw early-spring wind fluttered her upturned collar as he heard her sobbing.
“I understand. It’s okay. I’ll take care of it.” In the parking lot he put his arms around her again. “We’ll get it straightened out, Sue. You got the whole thing right in the face, didn’t you?”
“Oh, Eddie. We’re going to be a long time getting out of this mess. She’s only fourteen.”
“What’s in this box, Dad?”
Benson glanced back on the rear seat as he drove.
“Oh, I forgot. It’s for you. Open it.”
Top grinned at his mother and pulled the string from the box.
He got the lid off and opened his mouth as he lifted the helmet out, gazed at it in awe, then put it on his head.
“Horse Guards, Top. Queen’s own. Hunted all over London for that.” The Horse Guards’ helmet was gleaming silver with a striped chin strap and a panache of black, downhanging feathers. Top’s face looked rather small in it. His mother reached back and touched his face.
“Very dashing, Top. You can be my guard anytime.”
Benson said, “It’ll do until you see the real thing with me in London, Top.”
“It’s great!” said Top. “Thanks a lot, Dad.” He patted his father’s shoulder.
Eddie Benson smiled at him. “You’d better take it off for a while. That man in the blue car almost hit the retaining wall.”
Top took it off and sat, happily studying it in his lap.
As they drove to town, up the Schuylkill Expressway, past the refineries and the dead stalks of last summer’s weeds, depression finally settled on Benson. He realized how tired he was.
“What did you say that man’s name was?”
“Custis. Kenneth Custis.”
When Benson stepped from the car, he turned to face Sue. “Look, I’ll report in, get them to start processing the film, then I’ll run down the street and get the whole story on the parents’ committee. I’ll meet you in a couple of hours. Now, don’t worry about anything, I’ll handle it all. After I see this Custis fellow, you and I can talk this whole thing out.” He drew his gaze, with almost a wince, away from her weary face and gently pushed Top’s head back.
“Take care of your mother and stop worrying. We’ll have Renni back in no time. Both of you smile. Okay?”
He slung his raincoat over his shoulder and entered the building wearily, trying to look like the carefree producer with a collection of great TV commercials in the can and all under budget.
“Eddie, this is the cat’s ass. The shoot you’ve always wanted. The Serengeti Plain in Africa. Big budget with more than enough up front to make them happy as hell upstairs. You’ll be shooting film from here to there. A total of seven sixties, a string of thirties and twenties, plus a lot of wild footage. Ain’t that the nobs? Wait till you see these story boards. You’ll slobber all over your lunch.”
Benson shuffled some of the story boards.
Stanley waved a paper at him. “And now for the good news, Eddie. Look who’s going with you.” He held the paper under Benson’s eyes. “Everyone you love. A dream team. Including—ta-tahhhhhhh—Rita, girl cameraman.”
Benson sighed. “You should have been a pimp.”
“Why not, Eddie? Among her many virtues, she is one of the best cameramen in the business.”
“That’s a plus.”
“Okay. Get your double sleeping bag and hop down to the airport.”
“Sure. Just like that.”
“Nah, I’m kidding. You have some time on this.”
“How much is ‘some’ time?”
Stanley drew furious circles with a pencil on his pad. “Oh—say five days.”
“Days! Five days!”
“Okay, okay. Six.”
“You’re out of your mind.”
“It’s hot, Eddie, hot. It’s all put together. It took us a couple of months. We packaged six different clients on this, got them all to agree to use a Serengeti background. We even gave them—”
“Come on, Stanley. Six days.”
“They’re hot to go. You can handle it. I put it together while you were away. And, listen, listen, put your finger down. When you get back you’ll be a couple of months editing and making interlocks. Plenty of time for your family, right? Then listen to the big news. I have you down for six weeks’ vacation with your family. I already squared it upstairs. Six weeks. Your star is really rising around here.” Benson gazed unhappily at Stanley’s scribbled circles. “A couple of months and I won’t have a family, Stanley.”
“Hey, Eddie, you want it?”
“Sure I want it. I want it so bad my teeth hurt. It’s a dream shoot. But six days … Look, Stanley. I just got off the plane. My bags are still in my car. My laundry’s in Spain. My winter clothes are in Milan. And I’ve got an attaché case with receipts and vouchers from here to there—two months’ worth of expense accounts to do. And a jillion feet of film in the can that has to be processed. I haven’t been home in two months. And
my daughter’s in some kind of hot water. And you tell me six days. How about a month?”
“A month. Whoever heard of a month? Come on.” Stanley drew furious circles again. “Someone else can put those commercials together for you while you’re away. This shoot was made for you.”
“Six days.”
“Yep. Must be.”
Benson nodded. “Jesus.” He stood up. “Okay. Six days. Look, I have an appointment down the street, then I have to get some sleep. I can’t even remember how long I’ve been up. I’ll see you in the morning. What’ll I tell my wife?”
Six days.
“So,” said Kenneth Custis. “Your daughter’s in the hands of this infidel. Here. Sit down.” He lifted a scale model of a ranch home from a chair. “Sit, sit.”
Benson put his raincoat in a tan ball on the desk next to the rolls of blueprints and manila folders. The whole office had a faint chemical odor from a blueprint machine somewhere. Scale models of houses lay strewn on irregular piles of paper; pitched and tilted, they gave Custis’s office the appearance of a stricken river valley in the aftermath of a monumental spring flood.
“Damned place is a mess lately. Too many things.” Custis looked at Benson with staring, bold eyes. He had the blunt neck and the outthrust jaw of a born competitor. “Okay. She’s gone. What are you going to do about it?”
“I heard you had your kid arrested.”
“I didn’t have him arrested, I had him kidnapped. Right down there on the street. I hired two off-duty city detectives and a psychiatrist. They tumbled him into a cab and sat on him all the way to my house. My own son—orange sheet, begging bowl, the whole Buddhist costume. I couldn’t believe it.”
“So he’s home.”
“No, no. No, Benson, he’s not home. He hung around for two or three days, bullshitted the shrink, then zipped right back there.” Custis kneaded a pencil in his large, tense fist. It seemed in great danger. Everything in the whole room seemed threatened by his massive figure; everything seemed delicate. “That monk uses some kind of mind control on those kids, Benson.”
“Mind control? How does he do that?”
Keeper of the Children Page 1