Rock and Roll Queen of Bedlam

by Marilee Brothers

  “Looks like we’re in luck. No bright lights, no CCTV,” Nick says. He puts his hand on the door handle.

  My skin crawls with apprehension. The place gives me the heebie-jeebies. “Wait.” I start the engine. “Whatever’s in there will wait until morning.”

  Nick gives me a look of supreme adolescent disgust. “I’m not scared. Stay here if you want.”

  He jumps out of the truck and slips under the chain. Caught between the headlights and the darkness that lies beyond, he looks like a frail soldier marching stoically into the unknown.

  I kill the headlights, grab a flashlight, and catch up with him.

  “In and out fast. Okay, bud?”

  “Yeah, yeah.”

  The weather is still unsettled. A partial moon emerges from behind scudding clouds and bathes us in an eerie light. Gusting wind swirls through the long drive, picking up dust, dead leaves, and the detritus from dozens of fast-food meals. When the moon disappears, I feel the hair on the back of my neck stand up. Nick grabs the flashlight and checks the numbers scrawled in black marking pen over storage units that seem to march endlessly into the inky darkness.

  Adding to my anxiety, we find number forty-two at the end of the line, flush against the concrete wall. As far away from my truck as possible. While I peek over my shoulder for shape-shifters lurking in the dark, Nick whistles through his teeth and digs the key from his pocket. Squatting, he works the key into the metal handle at the bottom of the roll-up door.

  When it clicks into place, he looks at me and grins. “Yes!”

  Vivid images of Silence of the Lambs and the grisly contents of a similar storage unit flash through my mind. I bend over to help Nick haul the door upward, my eyes squeezed shut. When I open them, I see only the sad remnants of Joe Stepanek’s ruined life illuminated in the glow of the rapidly dimming flashlight. A dusty Big Wheel sits in one corner next to a baby swing and rusty gas barbeque.

  “Oh,” I sigh. The word, tinged with sadness, lingers in the gloom like a whispered prayer. The mundane nature of the items tugs at my heart. Joe had plans for the future.

  Backyard barbeques. Another baby?

  I remind myself that Joe, the drug dealer, is dead, his wife is behind bars, one child is unaccounted for, and the other is in foster care.

  “Come on! Before the flashlight conks out.” Nick’s whisper is urgent.

  I grab his sleeve. “Wait!” I take the flashlight and sweep its beam across the floor. Joe-sized boot prints are visible on the dusty floor. They lead to the half dozen cardboard boxes stacked against the wall.

  “Joe must have been here not long ago. Don’t step in the prints.” An atavistic fear sweeps through me, probably imprinted in my DNA by some ancient ancestor shuffling along on all fours. Perhaps my recent experience hearse-wise—lust in the presence of death—has left me open to the transient nature of life. Nick makes an exasperated sound but carefully avoids the footprints.

  “Start with the bottom,” I say. “Anything important will be hidden in the bottom box.”

  Nick ignores me, grabs the top box, and sets it on the floor. The box is crammed with old sweaters, unmated socks and musty-smelling bed linens, some of which are tossed aside as Nick scrabbles through the contents. With the top layer removed, Nick extends an arm deep into the box.

  “Something’s hidden at the bottom!” His voice shoots up a full octave. “Something hard. Gimme the light.”

  Before I can respond, he grabs the flashlight, its murky beam now stuttering in final death throes. With a cry of triumph, Nick pounces, withdraws a small wooden box, and hands it to me. He roots around some more and pulls out a file folder crammed with papers. Just then the flashlight peters out, and we’re plunged into darkness. We step to the open doorway to examine the goods in the anemic light. The wooden box is a tiny cedar chest, its lid held in place by a metal hasp fastened with a tiny gold padlock.

  “Oh, great,” I say. “This time we have a lock but no key.”

  “Let’s check out the rest of the boxes.”

  Feeling like we’re on borrowed time, we ignore the footprints and drag each box to the light for a quick look. We find nothing but old clothes, rusty tools, and what looks like meth-cooking equipment. A sudden gust of wind rattles the door. I yip in alarm and pluck at Nick’s sleeve. “Time to hit the road, big boy.”

  On the ride back, Nick snags a screwdriver from the glove box and tries to pry the box open. “We’ll get it later,” I say. “What’s in the file folder?”

  Nick withdraws a handful of papers and holds them to the window, trying to catch a glimmer of light as we speed down Blood Alley. “Marriage license, birth certificates … stuff like that. Oh, wait. Looks like he photocopied a page from some newspaper.”

  “Where from?”

  “The Daily Bulletin. Ontario, California? Know where that is?”

  “Yeah, close to L.A.”

  “Dated eight years ago.”

  He squints in the dim light. “Here’s something. An article about three guys being released from prison in Chino. Sex offenders who refused treatment and are likely to re-offend. Pictures, too.”

  “Read me their names.” Anticipation curls in the pit of my stomach. Is it possible the missing puzzle pieces are right here in the cab of my cherry red Ford Ranger?

  “Clyde Snell,” Nick reads. “Tyrone Dalrymple and Roy Harris.”

  “Check out Roy Harris’s picture. See if he looks like anybody you know,” I tell him. Roy Harris, Robinson Hunt. Maybe …

  “Yeah, right,” Nick says. “Like I’d know this guy.”

  “Just do it, okay?”

  When he speaks again, his voice is apologetic. “He looks familiar. Do you think—”

  “Later.”

  I stomp on the accelerator. I need light. Bright light. I need to put some distance between myself and the dark-shrouded remnants of a family torn asunder. I need to get off this ghost-ridden highway.

  We’re in Nick’s family room examining our booty. Nick places the wooden box on the coffee table and works on the last stubborn hinge screw. Susan has not yet made an appearance. I study the newspaper article. “I’m sure it’s him. Roy Harris is Robinson Hunt.”

  Nick looks over my shoulder. Roy Harris stares at the camera. His lips, curled in a sullen fuck you expression, reveal a crooked front tooth.

  “His hair’s darker, but that’s easy to change,” I say. “Picture him with blond hair and a thinner face. Fix his teeth, dress him in a snowy white robe, and you’ve got Pastor Rob. I’d bet money on it.”

  Nick nods slowly. “Yeah, could be. So that means …”

  Silence falls while we think of all the juicy possibilities. I speak first. “It means Joe knew about Hunt’s past. Maybe they served time together.”

  “Easy enough to find out,” Nick says. “Ask Sloan.”

  I’m suddenly bombarded with images of Sloan. Sloan with his busy, knowing hands and tongue. I feel a rush of heat flood my cheeks. Nick gives me a curious look. “You guys seeing each other? You and Sloan?”

  “No!” I bark. “And I’d rather keep Sloan out of it. As far as he’s concerned, the case is closed.”

  “Okay, I’ll hack into the California Department of Corrections. No problem.”

  The flush of erotic memories turn into a blush of shame. My refusal to involve Sloan will force my nephew into further criminal activity. “I could go visit Marta, now that we’re buds,” I offer. “She’ll tell me.”

  “Nah, I can do it tonight. Don’t worry. I won’t get caught.”

  I hear the sound of a tiny screw hitting the coffee table.

  “Got it!” Nick crows. He wrenches off the lid and dumps the meager contents of the box onto the coffee table. While Nick sorts bits of paper, I flip through faded Polaroid snapshots of a younger, buffer Joe leaning against a pickup truck. Joe holding a baby. Sara? Joe, grinning at the camera with a kid under each arm. No pictures of Marta. It’s as if she never existed.

  I loo
k up to see Nick fingering a small envelope wrapped around a thin, square object.

  “Looks like a—”

  “Floppy disk,” Nick says with a triumphant grin. “Don’t get your hopes up. Could be demagnetized. Depends on how long it’s been stored.”

  I look over his shoulder as he slides the disk into his computer. After a few keystrokes, we see a spreadsheet with four columns. Three are easy to understand: date, name and dollar amount. The fourth column contains only initials: M.H.C.

  I feel a surge of excitement. “Gotta be Joe’s drug sales. The initials should be easy to figure out. ‘M’ probably stands for meth … or maybe marijuana. Sloan would kill for this.”

  I scan the list and spot the names of several prominent Vista Valley citizens. “Joe was a busy boy.”

  “According to the newspaper article,” Nick says, “Harris was released from prison April of 1998. Do we know when Robinson Hunt showed up in Vista Valley?”

  “Grandma said three or four years ago.”

  “Okay,” Nick says. “That would be around the time the Stepaneks got busted. But where does Harris fit in?”

  Then it hits me. If Robinson Hunt, the charismatic saver of lost souls and crony to the rich and powerful of Vista Valley, is really Roy Harris, sex offender, Sloan isn’t the only one who’d kill to get his mitts on the stuff we’ve found. I grab Nick’s shoulder. “Give me the disk!”

  Startled, Nick says, “Jeez, what’s your problem?”

  “Just do it.” I find the newspaper clipping about Roy Harris, wrap it around the disk, and shove it under the couch. Something catches my eye in the jumble of papers.

  “What’s this?” I pluck an official looking document from the pile.

  Nick carefully unfolds another birth certificate, this one done in pink parchment paper. The name “Clementine” and a birth date of October 1, 1991 appear in the center. A Cabbage Patch logo decorates the bottom. I remember the dirty-faced doll in Sara’s depressing bedroom.

  I gasp, Nick gapes, and together we exclaim, “Clementine!”

  Nick jumps up. “That’s what she was trying to tell me in her letter. We gotta get that doll.”

  I retrieve the stash from under the couch and return it to the wooden box. We double wrap everything in two plastic grocery bags and stash them under the frozen peas in Susan’s chest freezer. Tomorrow, I’ll have Dodie lock them in the safe. I offer to stay until Susan returns, but Nick won’t hear of it. I wait outside until he sets the alarm.

  When I pull into my driveway, I’m rummy with fatigue. It has been a full day, what with teachers’ meetings, Joe Stepanek’s funeral, my interview with Marta, hearse-related activities, and a spooky visit to Wahconda.

  Probably why I didn’t have my guard up.

  Chapter 22

  Grandma Sybil’s detached garage is vintage 1930s and set well back from the street. No remote control. Just two wooden doors secured in the middle by a padlock, requiring the driver—in this case a slow-footed and soporific driver—to exit the vehicle, unlock the lock, and open the doors.

  Though our porch light burns and a light still shines in Noe’s upstairs window, the garage is deep in the shadows. I leave the headlights on and trudge to the garage, key in hand. The rattle of a garbage can in the alley tells me Vlad is out and about. No longer a member of the dating pool, he often prowls the neighborhood looking for garbage cans with lids ajar. One swipe of his paw and Vlad will settle in for an all-you-can-eat buffet.

  The men wait to jump me until after I pull the Ranger into the garage.

  Later, I will look back and view my memories of that night like some horrifying PowerPoint presentation.

  Allegra, closing the garage door, dreaming of bed. A silent footfall from behind. A dark looming figure. A split second of paralyzing fear before her arms are pinioned, her mouth covered with a brutally strong hand.

  My aborted screams and flailing limbs have little effect on my attacker, who drags me toward the alley. I hear the sound of an idling engine and another man’s hoarse whisper. “Get her in the car.”

  “No!” I yell from behind the gloved hand, my muffled voice little more than a squeak.

  I kick hard, land a blow, and hear the man grunt with pain. Then he adjusts his hand so it not only covers my mouth but pinches my nose shut. Panicky and desperate for air, I bite at his gloved hand while my heart tries to hammer its way out of my chest. A car door opens. Sky rockets burst in my dimming vision. I redouble my efforts, even though my strength is fading fast. Trapped in the car, I’ll be SOL. Maybe even DOA.

  I decide to play dead, thinking I can lull them into complacency and then spring back to life and escape before they can load me in the car. Granted, I’m not thinking too straight since my brain is deprived of oxygen. But then I hear a sound that, even years later, will bring tears of gratitude to my eyes.

  With a hideous yowl, Vlad lands on the back of my assailant’s neck, fifteen pounds of enraged tomcat, an orange fury with razor-sharp teeth, unsheathed claws, and an overwhelming desire to inflict pain.

  Grandma will say later that I am Vlad’s own personal victim and, like Sloan, he doesn’t like to share.

  “What the fuck?” the man shouts, releasing me to swat at the furry demon clinging to his head like a giant coon-skin hat.

  Air—wonderful, glorious, life-giving air—fills my lungs, and I scream for Noe, Grandma, Dodie, and quite possibly Sloan while I run from the alley. I hear the sound of running feet and a squeal of tires. Noe, shotgun in hand, is first on the scene, followed by Grandma in her nightgown and slippers. A few seconds later, Dodie appears, clutching a pearl handled revolver and a butcher knife.

  The next two hours are a kaleidoscope of images and words that bounce off my shocked and insensate mind, insignificant compared to my joy at being alive. When the police arrive—I’ve requested Marty if available—Grandma thanks Noe and ushers us into the house. Earl Gray tea and warm chocolate chip cookies on a china plate follow in short order. I’m shaking so hard I have to hold the mug with two hands.

  Marty and his partner question me gently. “Can you describe your assailants?”

  “It was dark. One was stocky and strong, about my height. The other guy looked tall and thin.”

  “Did you see their faces?”

  I shake my head, not wanting to go there. “The guy grabbed me from behind. The other man was in the shadows. When they ran, they, they …”

  The image flashes through my mind. Two dark figures running toward a car. Vlad flying through the air, hitting the side of the garage with a hiss and growl. “Ski masks,” I say. “Their faces were covered with dark ski masks.”

  “What about the car?”

  “Big and boxy. Maybe an SUV. A dark color, black or maybe dark green. It happened so fast. All I could think about was getting away …” My voice breaks, and Grandma moves behind me. She wraps her arms around my shoulders and puts her soft cheek next to mine. Her gentle touch puts me over the edge, and I draw a shuddering breath.

  She whispers, “My sweet, sweet girl. Thank God you’re all right.”

  I pat her face and feel her tears. “Good old Vlad,” I say. “First thing tomorrow morning I’ll buy him a case of tuna. The good stuff. Albacore.”

  Grandma giggles, her good nature restored. She swoops down and picks up Vlad, who’s popped through his cat door seemingly no worse for wear. She hurries off to find him a special treat. Dodie has vanished with her arsenal of weapons, clearly disappointed she wasn’t able to use them.

  “Any idea who might have done this, Allegra?” Marty asks.

  I avoid his eyes and shake my head. My list of suspects is short. Though Donny is capable of vandalizing my car, I don’t think he’d resort to kidnapping.

  I know my attack is connected to Sara’s disappearance. While Marty looks at me expectantly, I tick off the reasons in my mind. The Hewitts and their sudden influx of cash. Sara’s letter. My stolen sticky notes. Robinson Hunt’s phony identity and possibl
e criminal past. The trail of bodies: Joe Stepanek. Peggy Mooney. Was I to be the third?

  And yesterday, I poked hard at Hunt’s hornet’s nest. Did his wife tell him of my visit? In our search for Sara, we’ve found information people are willing to kill for. I look at Marty, open my mouth, and then slam it shut. I have no proof, just suspicions. He’ll think I’m a nut job.

  Marty and his partner exchange glances but wait while I muse. Finally, Marty tells his partner. “How about checking the alley for tire marks?”

  When we’re alone, Marty says, “What is it, Al? Tell me.”

  I swallow hard. “I’ve been meaning to call you. What did you find out about Sara Stepanek?”

  Marty’s demeanor changes. Shifting in his chair, he gazes into his tea. When he looks up at me, his expression is carefully neutral. “Case closed,” he says.

  Sloan’s words. Words that unleash a firestorm of fury deep within me. When I speak, my voice is tight, controlled. “What exactly does that mean, Marty?”

  He flushes. “Take it easy, Al. I’m way down in the pecking order.”

  “Who did you talk to?”

  “You know about chain of command, right?”

  I think about Donny Thorndyke and R.D. “Yeah, I know how that goes.”

  Marty glances at the door then back at me. “This is between you and me. Got it?”

  I nod, afraid to speak lest he change his mind.

  “I checked to see if the girl had been reported missing. Nope. So I ask the lieutenant if he’s heard about a kid who went missing a few weeks back.” Marty leans forward and lowers his voice. “Here’s the weird part. He said, ‘Oh, yeah, the Stepanek girl. Forget about it. That’s the word from above.’”

  “Just another throwaway kid,” I say, bitterness creeping into my voice. “What’s so weird about that?”