by Rex Burns
“What do you know about le bel age?”
She laughed. “We women talk! Have you met some California blonde yet?”
“Maybe you ladies talk too much. No, I haven’t—not the kind you’re hinting at, anyway.” Megan crossed my mind, but for no clear reason I preferred not to mention her. My love life was a topic where joking masked a serious concern on Rebecca’s part. I believed her sincerity when she said I ought to remarry, that I had too much life left to stay single out of fear of what she or Karen might think. But I also suspected that my daughter wasn’t entirely convinced she’d like it and that she spoke from some noble sense of sacrifice for what should be right for me. “Besides, anyone I happen to get serious about will have to pass muster with you and Karen. So don’t worry about that.”
“I’m not worried. How are Karen and Chuck?”
I told her they were doing well, wondering how to caution her without either alarming her or generating some silly notion of dropping out of school to fly home and protect me. Rebecca had been the one to take Eleanor’s place as my helpmate. Karen, away at college, was spared the daily emptiness of the house and the routines of shopping, cleaning, and laundry. “Is everything okay with you, Becky? Any problems or … or anything you need help with?”
“I’m fine. Everything’s going swimmingly, as Barbara says. Oh, she wants me to go over to England with her in a couple weeks. I think I might—we have another vacation coming up.”
“Another one?”
“A long weekend—one of those national holidays.”
“That sounds fine, and have a good time.” I added, “Listen, Becky, if you need help at any time, remember just call me. When I’m not at home, I have the phone answerer on. I’ll get right back to you.”
“Is something worrying you, Dad?”
“No. It’s just you’re a long way from home. The usual fatherly concerns.”
“Well, don’t be concerned—I can take care of myself.”
“I know that. But if something happens that you can’t handle, or aren’t sure about, call. Don’t hesitate at all. Ever. Hear me?”
“All right. I hear you.”
“I’ll be talking with you again soon.”
We would be, she assured me. And we gave each other our love and said good-bye.
I stared at the telephone with that slightly empty sense of talking a lot but saying little that seemed memorable. If I’d told her about the threat, she’d have worried more about me than herself. Enough, perhaps, to insist that she could contribute something. Right now, her contribution was to be out of harm’s way. Moreover, I didn’t want to spoil the obvious enjoyment she was finding in her year abroad.
Oh, to be in England in the spring. I might even fly over for a couple of days just to say hello. By then, I hoped, there’d be no reason not to. Hoped, hell. I was certain. Because I wasn’t going to let this Satanist garbage drag on that long.
CHAPTER 25
ANNETTE VENGLEY WAS apologetic. “No, Mr. Steele, I haven’t heard a thing from Dwayne since we spoke. Have you found out anything about Dori yet?”
“I finally traced her to Colorado. She said Dwayne had been there, too.”
“That’s news to me—I didn’t know he’d moved there.”
“I’m not sure he moved. I was told he was there for a while and then came back here. Is there any possible place you can think of, no matter how tenuous, that he might be? It’s extremely vital that I get in touch with him.” Across the calm waters of the bay, the mountains behind the city rose yellow and brown as they faced the flat glare of a setting sun. On one of those ridges, somewhere to the right of that bright cluster of downtown high-rises with sun-sparked windows, was Mrs. Vengley’s apartment.
“As I said before, he doesn’t talk to me very often.”
“Did you read about Shelley Aguirre’s death?”
“Yes. That poor girl.” The telephone was silent. “You’re not … implying anything about Dwayne, are you?”
“Why do you ask that, Mrs. Vengley?”
“Well, you say you know where Dori is. But you’re still looking for Dwayne. It seems to imply a connection. …”
I wondered if her question was because she sensed something to distrust in her own son. But all I said was, “Shelley’s death came after I talked to her.”
“I don’t see your point. The paper said she was probably killed by a burglar.”
“She belonged to a Satanist cult, Mrs. Vengley. She said Dwayne was a member, too.”
“A what?”
I repeated it to the shocked silence. “Did he collect books on devil worship or sorcery? Do you remember any radical personality changes—moodiness or withdrawing or losing his sense of humor?”
“I … I really can’t remember his reading anything like that. It was several years ago. He’s been on his own since he left for Occidental. And as for being moody, I thought that was the definition of a teenager.”
“How about suddenly changing his friends?”
She thought about that. “No. When he went to college, he stopped seeing most of his high school friends. Except for Dori, of course. But that’s only to be expected—new school, new friends.”
“And you’ve never suspected any kind of cult activity on his part?”
“Of course not. No. Why did Shelley say such a thing?”
“Because I asked her about it.”
“Mr. Steele, I can’t remember anything like that. I can’t imagine Dwayne surrendering himself to any sort of group like that. He’s always been so—” She groped for a word. “Self-contained.”
“Did he ever mention a Gaylord Pettes?”
“No. And I’d certainly remember such a name.”
“Or the Temple of the Shining Spirit?”
“No.”
“Did he ever talk about his work at Alef Distributing?”
“I didn’t know he was working anywhere. In fact, with all your questions, I’m beginning to wonder what we do talk about.” She added, “And they’re beginning to frighten me a little, too. It sounds as if you really are implying that Dwayne has something to do with Shelley’s death.”
“Mrs. Vengley, I don’t have evidence of anything at all. But I do know of David Gates and Jerry Hawley. And now Shelley Aguirre. Your son’s friends seem to have bad luck and that does raise questions. But please don’t think I’m making accusations. I’m not.”
“It’s difficult to think otherwise, Mr. Steele, given the tenor of the questions you’ve been asking. You came to me asking if Dwayne knew Dori Wilcox. Now you’re making all these … these innuendos about my son!”
“Dori’s involved in another cult, one which Dwayne seems to have some tie to.” I could have added that I was also trying to find out if Dwayne knew about the threat to my daughters, but the woman was too near the edge already. “Please, Mrs. Vengley, I’m just trying to discover the facts. And to do it, I need to speak with Dwayne. It may be in his best interests to talk with me, too. Do you have any inkling where he might be? Can you think of any names or addresses—new or old—that might be a lead to him?”
“His father, of course. Have you talked to him?”
“Only one time. Like you, he said he rarely sees Dwayne.”
“He sees more of him than I do, I know that. But I don’t know how often that is.” Hesitantly, she added, “You might try Willy Davis. He lives over in Coronado somewhere—Ninth Street, I think. He and Dwayne used to be very close friends. But Dwayne hasn’t mentioned him in a long time.”
I noted the name. “Anyone else he used to see a lot of?”
“Those girls in high school. Dori, Stacey, the other two.”
“Kimberly and Margot?”
“Yes. They were good friends their senior year. But as I say, that was quite a while ago.”
“Before David Gates’s death?”
Her voice faltered. “Yes.”
“Anyone else?”
She thought. “He mentioned a Michael som
ebody. But that’s all I can think of.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Vengley. You’ve been helpful.”
There were several Davises in the Coronado directory, but only one W. listed for Ninth Street. I thought about dialing the number and decided not to. It’s harder to close a door than hang up a telephone. Besides, I wanted to see the man’s eyes. I made the short drive up the Strand and turned north from Orange Avenue.
Like most of the streets in Coronado, this was a quiet one. The homes were smaller than the mansions closer to the beach. There, old money mixed with retired admirals and generals. Here were the more modest homes of retired captains and colonels. An American flag fluttered from a standard in front of a corner split-level. The glimpses over patio walls showed tiny gardens lush with flowers and citrus trees and care. The Davis house was a ranch-style duplex running down the depth of the narrow lot. A matching white stucco wall blocked off a small patch of front yard. Then it continued around the property line to enclose a larger rear patio. Apparently the garage was in back, approached from the alley.
I let myself through two green wooden gates and pressed the bell of the rear unit. A wrought-iron grille sheltered the door. It opened to show a man with his hands wrapped in a dish towel. “Yes?”
“Are you Mr. Davis?”
“Yes.”
I introduced myself and told Davis what I wanted.
“Dwayne?” A hand came out of the dish towel to tug absently at the collar of his Hawaiian shirt. Davis was somewhere in his late thirties, about five-seven, gaunt, with a fleshy nose and deep lines running from it down to the corners of his mouth. His complexion had a kind of grayness that matched the narrow face and showed little effect of sun. “I haven’t seen him for a while. Can you tell me why you’re looking for him?”
“He might be able to help me with a case I’m working on.”
“You—ah—you’re a policeman?”
“No. I was looking for a missing girl. But it’s gotten a bit more complicated. Dwayne might have some information that will help.” The doorway gave a glimpse of the living room. Hung on the wall was a large charcoal sketch of a male Negro, nude and lounging against an ottoman. An end table bore a lamp whose base was an elongated female figure in smoky glass. “Can you suggest any place Dwayne might be?”
“What do you mean, ‘complicated’?”
I smiled. “Well, it involves reasons why the girl was missing. Reasons why she might not want to return home.”
“I see, I think.”
“Did Dwayne ever mention the Temple of the Shining Spirit?”
Davis’s almost black eyes stared up at me and after a moment he shook his head. “No. Not that I recall.”
“It’s in Denver. Did he ever talk about Colorado?”
“No. Look, I haven’t seen Dwayne in a long time. I just don’t know what he’s up to now.”
“Up to?”
Davis’s lower teeth glimmered as they nipped at his upper lip. “I didn’t mean anything by the phrase. But perhaps it was a dicey choice of words. Freudian slip, perhaps. ‘Doing.’ I don’t know what Dwayne is doing now. I don’t know where he is and I haven’t talked to him in at least two years.”
“I understand from his mother that you were very good friends for several years.”
“We were, yes.”
“How’d you meet him?”
Davis seemed surprised at the question. His eyebrows lifted to wrinkle a narrow forehead. “We, um, shared some interests. I met him at a bookstore.”
“Interest in the occult?”
The man’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Well, yes. Spiritual explorations.”
“Satanism?”
“There’s nothing illegal about it.”
“I didn’t say there was. Do you belong to the same Kabbal as Dwayne?”
“Kabbal? No—coven. I practice the Craft now. I gave up Satanism.”
“Is that why you and Dwayne stopped being friends so suddenly?”
Davis hesitated and then nodded. “In part, yes. He’s more into Satanism. I explored it for a while, but Wicca is more positive. It’s a positive energy; Satanism’s a negative energy.” For the first time the man smiled, a quick lift and fall at the corners of his mouth. “We used to have some good talks.”
“So you had shifted to witchcraft before you stopped being friends?”
“Yes.”
“Was there any other reason you stopped being friends?”
Davis debated something. I waited. At last he bobbed his shoulders. “We had an argument. Quite an argument.”
“About what?”
“Well, I happen to be homosexual. I’m not ashamed of it. But I don’t flaunt it, either.” He looked to see if I believed him. “Just like heterosexuals, there are responsible and irresponsible homosexuals. I happen to be a responsible one.”
“Dwayne is homosexual?”
“Bisexual. Or so he claims. I suppose it’s possible, though I have my doubts.”
I asked, “How was he irresponsible?”
“He brought a little friend to my house once. Someone he picked up over on the beach. He expected me to join in the fun and games. I kicked them both out.”
“A little friend?”
“A boy. Eleven, twelve. I am not a chicken hawk. I don’t believe children have the maturity to make decisions about whether or not to join an adult in sexual activity—they can be too easily manipulated. By money or gifts, by emotional pressures. A great part of their innocence is their ignorance, Mr. Steele, and they don’t really know what they are getting into.” He took a deep breath. “I was a sexually abused child; I know what I’m talking about.” He added, “That’s not why I’m homosexual. Besides, Wicca teaches us to respect the wishes of others: ‘As you harm none, do what thou wilt.’ ”
“Was this the first time you saw Dwayne with a child?”
“And the last.”
“Do you know if he made a practice of pederasty?”
Davis shook his head. “We were friends for two or three years before this incident. He never even talked about it. I suppose that’s why, when the two of them showed up right here where you’re standing, I was shocked. Totally shocked.” Another of those quick smiles. “And perhaps even verged on the irrational in my disappointment with Dwayne. At any rate, we’ve had no contact since then.”
“Can you think of any place at all where he might be? Places he likes to hang out—bars, restaurants? Friends he might be staying with? Anyone he talked about a lot?”
“Well, as I said, the store where we met—Demeter Books. I went with him once to a bar over on the north side, Pony’s, a gay place. As for people, he didn’t really speak too much about other friends. Dwayne could be quite reticent about his personal life. Mostly we discussed the relative merits—or lack thereof—of Wicca and Satanism.”
I got directions to the bookstore and bar and, thanking Davis, drove through the lingering twilight. The lights of downtown made a glare that dimmed the glitter of the bay bridge and brought the sky close to the streets. Demeter Books, like many shops but perhaps with more reason, was open until nine. It was a deep store with a narrow front and bookshelves running down the long axis. A handful of people, mostly men, browsed here and there. The clerk wore a full beard and a large chain and pentagram medallion around a pudgy neck. He nodded hello as I walked in.
I browsed down the aisles. Sections were labeled The Occult, Wicca, Satanism, Spells and Incantations, Ceremonies. There was even a glass case offering a sale on bells, books, and candles. Mounted over the rear door, a ram’s head with massive horns glared down with wide, glassy eyes. I wandered back to the proprietor. He smiled and placed his hand over his heart in a gesture I’d seen recently.
“Is that a greeting?”
Teeth shone white against red lips. “If you were a club member, you wouldn’t have to ask. It’s no secret; it’s just like shaking hands among us.”
“Satanist?”
“Of course. Thumb and little
finger are the horns, bent middle fingers the head. Horns are sacred to Satan.” He bobbed his head toward a shelf. “Read Hobbleston. He explains it all. In fact we have a special on it this week: The Graffiti of the Dark Lord: Signs and Symbols of Satanism.’ ”
The youth at Alef Distributing … he’d placed his hand on his chest that way. “Accurate?”
“Mostly. But the graffiti section’s dated. Hard to keep up with that—it changes too fast.”
“I’ve been told by a friend that Dwayne Vengley comes in a lot. Have you seen him lately?”
“Dwayne?” The man’s full lips pulled down. “He was in, what, a week or so ago just to say hello. I haven’t seen him since then.”
“Did he come alone or with someone?”
“By himself.” He shifted on the stool that lifted him level with the counter. Down an aisle, one of the browsers coughed loudly and blew his nose, an absent honk of discomfort. “Why?”
“I’m not a cop, but I’m trying to find him. Nobody seems to know where he moved to.”
“He moved? From that place on Island Avenue?”
I nodded. “Did you visit him there?”
“No. It’s just where I send the mailing lists.”
“What mailing lists?”
“He buys my outdated mailing lists. Helps me cover the overhead.”
“He hasn’t sent you a new address?”
“He probably will. I’m due to revise it next month. Twice a year it gets revised. With the cost of postage, I should do it more often than that. But even with the computer it’s a bitch of a job.”
“What’s he do with your list?”
The lips pulled down again. “Says he mails out advertisements.”
“What kind?”
“Don’t know. It’s not,” he said pointedly, “my business.” The man looked past me and smiled at a waiting customer.
I stepped aside as he cheerily rang up the sale. It was an hors d’oeuvres book and bar guide for Perfectly Satanic Hospitality. After the satisfied customer left, I asked, “Did he ever mention the Temple of the Shining Spirit?”
“Shining Spirit. I can’t recall. But we sell their publications.” He pointed to a shelf marked by a poster bearing a lotus figure surrounded by an aspen shape of radiating wisdom.