Rock and Roll Queen of Bedlam

by Marilee Brothers

  “Just checking my medical information. Patients’ rights and all that.”

  Before I can pick it up, Nick snags an errant file folder. “Yeah, if your name’s Donald A. Thorndyke.”

  “Guess I grabbed the wrong one. Thome, Thorndyke. Right next to each other.”

  I gather up the loose papers and take a quick peek on my way to the shelves. What I see stops me cold. The results of a CT scan. I stuff the folder back in the yellow section.

  Nick is trying to be casual, but his face-splitting grin gives him away. “I was right! Sara’s diary is written between the lines of poetry.”

  I put Donny and his medical problems on the back burner. “Yes!” I boogie across the file room and give Nick a high five.

  I flip out the light and follow Nick back into the lounge. The room smells of scorched paper. He opens Sara’s notebook to “Shall I Compare Thee to a Summer’s Day?” I squint to read the message scrawled in messy, light brown script between the lines of the sonnet, the words activated by heat from the iron.

  Feb. 15. Counseling with Pastor Rob. Asked me if I missed Dad. I cried. He hugged me. Said I could tell him anything. Don’t want him to think I’m bad.

  It still doesn’t make sense to me. “Why go to all that trouble? The notebook was hidden by the furnace. It was written in invisible ink, for God’s sake. Why would she think anyone would need to read it?”

  Nick shakes his head. “She must have sensed something wasn’t right. Guess we’ll find out when we read her diary, huh?”

  He’s pale and trembling. It’s as if he can’t bear to know the truth.

  “You okay?” I ask.

  “I’m fine.” He draws a deep, raspy breath and says, “It figures, you know? Sara loves puzzles. She and her dad used to write in code.”

  “It must have taken her forever to write her entries.”

  “Naw, she probably got pretty good at it. And she didn’t write that much,” Nick said.

  A sharp pain shoots through my temples indicating one of two things: extreme information overload, or bad karma as a result of my snooping. I massage my temples. “How long will it take you to decipher her entries?”

  “Activate,” he corrects. “I’ll work on it now.” He reaches for the iron.

  Big question marks bang around in my skull, the kind you see in the funny papers right before the lightbulb comes on. Unable to process as I usually do, by running my motormouth, I grab a pencil and make a list.

  What was Joe Stepanek’s connection to Roy Harris?

  When did Roy Harris become Robinson Hunt?

  How did Gordon Venable get involved with Roy Harris?

  Who was Joe Stepanek’s supplier?

  I set my list aside and go in search of a phone book.

  I find Gordon Venable’s ad in the yellow pages under accountants. Venable Business Service, Gordon Venable, CPA. Good ol’ Gordy offers financial management, full bookkeeping services, income tax returns, payroll, and business planning. Could it be his work for the church is pro bono? But Susan told me Venable manages the WWJD winery as well. Venable has his long, bony fingers in a lot of pies.

  I’ve just checked my list again when the long-awaited lightbulb pops up in my head. It’s a big one, maybe even a floodlight.

  “Marta,” I say with absolute certainty. “I need to talk to Marta.”

  Chapter 24

  after a burst of static and a series of clicks, a recorded message informs me the call is from the Pine Lodge Correctional Center. Will I accept a collect call from—after a brief pause—”Marta.” As she says her name, Marta’s voice is flat, almost as devoid of emotion as the mechanical one preceding it.

  “Yes, yes,” bursts from my lips before she’s done speaking.

  Two hours have passed since my first attempt to contact Marta. After discovering my cell phone was dead, I dashed home and sent Dodie back to stay with Nick, who was still deeply engrossed in reading Sara’s diary.

  In my naïveté, I thought I could dial up Pine Lodge, ask for Marta, and have a friendly little chat. A surly matron told me prisoners could only call out, that it had to be a collect call and the time limit was strictly enforced.

  Though Marta and I made a fleeting connection in the van, the memory of her hate-filled eyes lingers in my mind. To ensure a return call, I told the matron I had information about Marta’s daughter. Okay, so I need information.

  “Hi, Marta,” I chirp.

  “You found Sara?” Marta asks.

  Her question hangs in the air between us, and I feel a twinge of remorse.

  “Not exactly,” I hedge. “That’s why I’m calling. We found the storage locker and some information about Joe’s drug business.”

  Marta gives a disgusted snort. “Joe didn’t tell me nothing about that.”

  “That’s not why I called,” I tell her. “But I’ve got some questions I think you can help me with.”

  “Joe didn’t tell me nothing,” she repeats. “Said it was better that way. That big dude tell you to call me? You taping this?” Her voice is strident with anger and betrayal. I’m losing her.

  “No, no,” I assure her. “Look, Marta, I think we’re getting close to finding Sara. Her disappearance could be connected to Joe’s death. I think she’s in danger. I need your help. Please.”

  The urgency in my tone results in a palpable silence that stretches between us like a shimmering filament, taut yet fragile, easily shattered by word or nuance. I zip my lip and hold my breath.

  Finally, Marta sighs, a whispery sound that conveys a lifetime of broken dreams. “Okay, but like I said before, I don’t know nothing.”

  Giddy with relief and oxygen deprivation, I exhale loudly. “You might know more than you think.”

  I reach for my list of questions.

  For a woman who claims to know “nothing,” Marta’s memory is undiminished by time. The words pour out in staccato bursts like pent-up birds seeking an open window. As she speaks, I grab a piece of paper and scribble notes.

  Joe and Marta lived in California, “bumming around” as Marta put it. Joe was heavily involved in a biker gang and doing a lot of stuff he shouldn’t. Like meth labs. During a bust, Joe’s buddies left him to take the fall. Because of previous run-ins with the law, he was sentenced to hard time.

  “Chino,” I murmur.

  “Yeah, Chino.” She spits out the word as if it has a bad taste.

  Alone with five-year-old Sara, Marta had two choices. Hook up with another biker or return to the reservation. She chose the latter and thumbed her way back home. She and Sara were taken in by a thrice-removed “aunty,” and slept on the floor of a flimsy HUD-built house already bursting at the seams with extended family. Marta tried to figure out a way to feed her daughter. Her options were few. When a cousin offered to hook her up with “the Man” for some easy money, she jumped at the chance.

  “The Man?” I ask.

  “God, you don’t know anything, do you?” Marta is clearly irritated with my interruption.

  Chastened, I murmur, “Sorry.”

  “The Man, the Big Guy, B.G. That’s what we called him,” she says. “He ran things back then. Maybe he still does. Anyway, he didn’t bother with the rez. Not a big enough return. That’s where we came in. I made enough to get my own place.”

  “And that’s how Joe ended up here after he got out?”

  “Yeah, he wanted to put some space between him and the gang. You know, make a fresh start.”

  Yeah, I think, make afresh start by jumping into the drug business with both feet. “What year was that?”

  “It was ’97. Joey was born in ’98. Joe was doing real good by then, and we bought a place west of Vista Valley. Out in the sticks. Joe liked it out there.”

  I check my watch. Only five minutes left. I broach the subject of Roy Harris.

  “Oh, that guy!” Marta says with a bark of laughter. “Joe knew him at Chino. Called him ‘Slick.’ Said he could make people believe all kinds of shit. He told
a guard he could read his mind. Spooked the guy so much they had to move him to a different unit.”

  “Did he come to Vista Valley after he got out?”

  “He was going to,” Marta says. “But he said he got a better gig.”

  “Know what it was?”

  “Yeah, he turned into a fake preacher. Said it was a sweet deal and that people couldn’t wait to stuff the collection plate with money. Some scam he had going, huh? A creep like that pretending to be religious.”

  “Do you know if he changed his name?”

  “Might have. Joe never told me.”

  “Before you—you know—went away, did Harris ever come to Vista Valley?”

  The silence grows as Marta mulls it over. Finally, she says, “Yeah, I think he did. I remember Joe laughing about it. I think he sold him some stuff.”

  “What about the drug guy, B.G.? Did he ever come to the house?”

  A huff of disapproval from Marta. “Course not. Joe didn’t want him around the kids.”

  “I don’t suppose you know his name.”

  “Joe slipped once and called him Jordy or Gary or Gordy, something like that.”

  I suck in my breath. The second hand on my watch is racing toward the finish line. “Joe ever say what he looked like?”

  “No,” Marta says. “But he called him the geek.”

  Bingo. Gordon Venable is the Man. B.G. The Big Guy.

  “Why you asking about him? What’s he got to do with my girl?”

  Marta sounds peevish.

  Torn between providing information and not causing Marta further pain, I share my suspicions about Roy Harris-slash-Robinson Hunt and his connection to Gordon Venable. In my highly edited version, I make no mention of Hunt’s penchant for young female flesh, saying only that Sara underwent a religious conversion. Though I believe otherwise, I tell Marta that Sara could be receiving some sort of counseling, that she may be a willing participant.

  I should have saved my breath.

  “Bullshit!” Marta screams into the phone. “You know what Roy Harris was in for?”

  She doesn’t wait for my answer. “He’s a God damn perv! That’s why Joe hated his guts. If he’s got my girl …” Her voice breaks, and she begins to keen, a sound so raw, so filled with primitive pain I feel her bleakness and sorrow pour into my soul.

  “Wait! Marta,” I shriek. “Please listen …”

  I hear an ominous click. In the silence that follows, I can still hear the eerie sound of Marta’s cry. Maybe I’ll hear it forever. I pound my fist against my desk.

  I made Marta cry. Tough little Marta with the “fuck you” attitude and the “don’t mess with me” stare.

  Nice going, Allegra. Hope it was worth it.

  I’m still pacing and stewing two hours later when I hear the front door open and the tantalizing smell of deep-fried food wafts up the stairway and into my apartment. Dodie has returned with Nick. My stomach growls ferociously, reminding me that the blueberry pancakes are long gone.

  Hmmm. French fries or onion rings? I can always count on Nick for junk food. CF kids have trouble keeping weight on, hence the high-fat diet. I trot happily toward the door. The ringing of the phone stops me in my tracks. I holler down the stairs, “Save some for me,” and go to the phone.

  “Allegra? It’s Michael.”

  What the hell? First Harley and now Michael. Did the powers that be slip in a new holiday without my noticing? A Call Your Ex Day?

  “We need to talk,” Michael says.

  “Go ahead.”

  “Look, Allegra. There’s stuff going on you don’t understand.”

  “Like how you had a sudden urge to take my family out to dinner and our place gets tossed while we’re gone? You’re right. I don’t understand. So why don’t you tell me?”

  I wait for him to deny it. Silence hangs in the air between us like acrid smoke.

  Finally, he sighs. “The kid you’re looking for?”

  “Sara.”

  “Yeah, Sara. You’re making a lot of people upset with your accusations. Important people.”

  “What accusations?” I yell and hear him wince. “I haven’t accused anybody of anything. I just want to know why nobody’s looking for her!” My voice has shot up an octave. I half expect to hear wineglasses exploding in the cupboard.

  “I gotta go, Al,” Michael says. His voice is tinged with an emotion I can’t identify. Regret? Sadness? “Just promise me one thing,” he adds. “If you hear something bad about me, don’t believe it.”

  Before he clicks off, I think I hear a soft “love ya.”

  I don’t know what shocks me more, Michael uttering the l word or his bewildering message. I hang up the phone and head downstairs. A large serving from the grease group will help me focus. Rather than trying to stuff my brain with facts that make no sense, I stuff my face with onion rings.

  Nick wipes his face with a napkin and noisily sucks in air, his lungs wheezing with the effort. His face has a bluish cast, a sure sign he isn’t getting enough oxygen.

  “You okay?” I ask.

  “I read Sara’s diary.”

  His pallor alarms me, but I know I need to hear him out.

  “I screwed up, Aunt Allegra.”

  His chest rises and falls rapidly with the effort of breathing. “She thought we’d have the notebook and the doll. If I’d only remembered about the doll …” He doubles over, caught up in a spasm of coughing.

  When he’s able to breathe again, he reaches into his backpack and pulls out a wad of papers. “I made copies for you. The original is locked in the safe. Get rid of them when you’re finished.”

  He slumps back in his chair, his face pinched with exhaustion.

  Dodie picks up her purse. “Let’s go, Nick. I’ll run you home.”

  Her tone is casual, but I see the concern on her face. I start to get up to go with them, but she waves me away. “Stay put. I’ll visit with Susan a while.” Flashing me a wicked grin, she asks, “Any messages for Harley?”

  I bare my teeth. “Yeah, I can think of several.”

  This gets a weak smile out of Nick. “Any I can repeat?” he asks.

  “Just one,” I say. “Tell him I’ll think about what he said.”

  Chapter 25

  Reading Sara’s diary is painful. I feel like a voyeur gobbling up words not meant to be shared. The entries clearly show that Sara’s guilt and confusion began when she started counseling with Robinson Hunt. The casual cruelty of Hunt’s seduction turns my stomach.

  March 2. Told Pastor Rob about the gang initiation. Not the other thing, though. We prayed. Said God Mould forgive. God would forgive her? I curse out loud and think about how neatly Hunt made Sara believe she was responsible for the rape, thus giving him the power to grant absolution. I assume from her words she hadn’t yet told him about the abortion.

  I quickly scan some entries that make no mention of Hunt. Typical teenage stuff: school activities, ongoing frustration with Patsy and Dwight, her affection for Nick. Around the first of April the tone grows darker and Nick has suddenly morphed into Woodstock. I thumb through the pages looking for the first mention of magpies and find one dated the first week in April. Tuesday, the day before her weekly appointment with Hunt.

  Library today. Research. Magpies eat other birds’ eggs.

  Even kill babies. Am I a magpie?

  The next week Sara unburdened herself to Robinson Hunt.

  April 13. Told Rob I did bad thing. Asked him if he thought abortion was murder. He said yes but I could be cleansed. Let him know when I’m ready.

  The black seed of suspicion sown earlier has lain dormant in my subconscious for days. Now, illuminated by the word “cleansed,” the seed sprouts, sends out roots, and grows into a full-blown theory so tangled and noxious I can hardly bear to let it linger in my mind. Even before I find the entry, I know what it will say. I know how Sara will be cleansed.

  May 4. Rob said I had to atone for the life I’d taken. That God will forgive
me if I have another baby.

  Even though I’ve been expecting them, the words are written with such innocence and trust that they take my breath away. Just for a second. Then a burning fury grips me, and I reach for the phone.

  Who ya going to call, Allegra? says a mocking voice inside my head. The cops? And tell them what? That the minister of a church thinks abortion is murder? Not exactly a revolutionary idea in Vista Valley. That he believes Sara needs to have a baby to achieve redemption? In truth, her words lend credence to the theory that she’s run off with a boyfriend. What better way to get pregnant?

  What about Robinson Hunt-slash-Roy Harris? The cops already think I’m a bleeding heart whacko trying to make them look for a kid who doesn’t want to be found. Marty is a great guy, but I can’t ask him to challenge his superiors.

  I know in my heart Robinson has Sara. I want to call him up, threaten him with bodily harm, and demand her whereabouts. But instead, I sip Diet Pepsi and keep on reading.

  Joe entered the picture in May. Down and out and living rough in a makeshift shelter by the river, Joe got around on a bicycle. Joe and Sara wrote each other notes and left them under a rock in the alley behind the Hewitts’ garage. They met at the public library in the evening, often walking the streets as they talked. Sara was clearly torn between love for her father and her desire to get right with God.

  May 9. Dad saw big billboard of Pastor Rob. Asked me questions about Rob. Why?

  I know that billboard. It features a giant-sized Robinson Hunt wearing his clerical gown and smiling his smarmy smile, along with the words “I am the light of the world.”

  No attribution follows the quote. Without book, chapter, and verse, it appears Robinson Hunt, not Jesus, is the light of the world. Probably not an accident.

  Sara was clearly curious about her dad’s reaction to the billboard. From her entries, I’m convinced Sara was unaware of her dad’s history with Robinson Hunt. Reading between the lines proves to be more informative.

  Joe was a quick study. By the middle of May, he told Sara he had something in the works, a big score. He’d be able to buy a car. They could be a family again. He knew where Joey was. They’d drive to the lower valley and pick up him up when he walked home from school. Head for Canada. Make a new start.