by Rex Burns
“Right.”
The long drive home was through empty streets. When I finally collapsed on my bed the tetanus shot and pills swirled me into a sweaty, dream-racked sleep. The telephone was the first thing to wake me, and my twanging muscles the second. I grunted hello and Admiral Combs’s voice gave a crisp good morning and said he was just checking to see if I’d come up with anything to get Dorcas home.
“Good question, Admiral. I don’t think I’ve been too successful.”
“What’s the matter, Jack? Is something wrong?”
I told him, the words muffled through swollen lips.
“Beat up? How bad are you hurt, Jack?”
“I’ve been to sick call already. I’ll live.”
“You’ll stay right there, too. Jenny and I are coming over.”
Rolling to my side, I eased out of bed and stumbled into the shower to soak in water as hot and hard as my scraped flesh could stand. Gradually, bending and twisting, my body loosened up and the aches began to ebb. By the time the admiral and his wife rang the doorbell, I even had some appetite back, which was good. It was a sign I didn’t have a concussion.
“Oh, my God, Jack!” Jenny started to reach up to my face but then paused. “Does it hurt much?”
“Of course it hurts, damn it!” The admiral closed the door and stared at me. “It was Vengley, wasn’t it?”
“His people.” I limped into the kitchen. “Coffee?”
“Let me, Jack.” Jenny insisted I sit down while she heated the water and even cleaned out a cantaloupe for me.
“They wouldn’t have done this if they weren’t worried, Jack.”
“I’m glad I didn’t worry them anymore.” One thing was certain: if I was going to be a professional snoop, I’d have to work out in a gym as well as run the beach. The reflexes forgot a lot when all they did was hold down a desk.
“Can’t I fix you some eggs or something?”
“This is fine, Jenny. Thanks.”
“I’m sorry we got you into this.”
I couldn’t tell the admiral I was overjoyed, but I didn’t want him feeling guilty about it, either. “I could have pulled out anytime. Now I’ve got a personal stake.” I told them about the threats to my daughters.
“My God …” The admiral frowned at his coffee cup. “They could do something to them, couldn’t they? Beating you up says that.”
“It tells me we don’t want to take a chance.”
“Dorcas can’t know about any of this—she can’t!”
“No, Jenny, I don’t think she does. She really believes Vengley’s left the Kabbal.”
“Do you think he might do something to her now?” The admiral’s eyes were hard as two blue marbles.
“The police—they have to help us now!”
I tried to make Jenny and the admiral believe that Dorcas was all right. But I couldn’t convince myself, either: during the restless night, I’d remembered another place I saw the satanic hand sign—at the Temple’s lodge in the mountains. When they left, I promised to call Shaughnessy and see if he could suggest any way to persuade the Denver police to help get the girl out of the Temple.
CHAPTER 27
SHAUGHNESSY HIMSELF ANSWERED the telephone. I told him about meeting with Vengley and about the assault.
“You think Vengley set you up?”
“He knew I’d be on the ferry and when. All he had to do was call and tell them I’d be coming.”
“Uh-huh. Sounds possible.” The telephone was silent. “You all right?”
“A few sore spots. I don’t think anything’s broken.”
“That’s good. Can you identify your assailants?”
“No. They wore stocking masks. I didn’t even see their car.”
“So no real link to Vengley.”
“Just my suspicions. And their warning to keep my nose out of their business or look out for my kids.”
“So what makes you think they were amateurs?”
“A lot of wild swinging and kicking. I went down. They could have done some real damage if they knew what they were doing.”
“I don’t know that I’d complain about that, Mr. Steele.” He asked, “Are you going to keep out of their business?”
“It’s my business now.”
“Uh-huh. Thought you might feel that way. I did some snooping for you.”
“What’d you get?”
“Not much, but something. Among the major stockholders of Mountain and Mesa Investments is one Arthur Vengley.”
“How in hell did you find that out?”
“A phone call—it’s a public corporation. Does it make any sense to you?”
“Not yet. But it’s interesting.”
“Does it lead anywhere on the Aguirre homicide?”
“If it does, I’ll call.”
“You be damned sure you do.”
I promised again that I would, and then I asked about any possible help from Denver in getting Dorcas away from the Temple.
“No way, Mr. Steele. The most they could do for us would be go by and ask her if she’s all right. If she wants to stay, there’s no way they can take her without some criminal charge.”
That was what I’d figured. I hung up and started working my stiff body into a coat and tie. As I was finishing, the telephone rang. It was Megan.
“Jenny told me what happened, Jack. Are you all right?”
“Hey, marines—ex-marines—call that rest and recreation.”
“Right. I’ve read the propaganda. You and John Wayne.”
“He’s dead.”
“That’s what worries me.”
There were a couple ways to take that. And what the hell, John Wayne, even dead, wouldn’t play it too cautious. “If that’s what it takes to worry you, I’ll do it again.”
It was her turn to pause. “Suppose I just worry without it.”
“And suppose I set your mind at ease over dinner.”
“You are all right, aren’t you?”
“I am now.”
We set a date for Friday. Megan had one request. “I’d just as soon we didn’t tell Jenny about this, Jack. She might jump to an … unreasonable conclusion.”
I didn’t want to listen to her gloat either. “It’s a deal.”
Mountain and Mesa Investments had their headquarters in a new high-rise office that had sprouted a few miles north of downtown. The suite was on the twentieth floor behind a band of tinted windows overlooking the lines of traffic on Interstate 805 below. Arthur Iacino had placed his desk so the glare from the windows highlighted his profile for visitors; the rest of the office breathed comfort and financial security. I ignored the stare of the receptionist. Iacino politely ignored my battle scars. He offered me a deeply upholstered leather chair snuggled under the leaves of a large ficus.
“We do a variety of investments, Mr. Steele. We started in real estate over fifteen years ago, and since then we’ve diversified into a number of areas.” He nodded at a chart on the wall whose pie slices indicated the percentages of corporate funds going to different types of investments. “Real estate is still the bulk of our holdings—the profit’s still there. But we’ve cushioned ourselves against fluctuation in that market by wise and selective money management. That, and our streamlined administration, is why we can offer a return that’s several points higher than you’ll find in any bank.”
“And the risk?”
“Of course there’s risk.” Iacino’s dark eyes smiled merrily behind the yellow-tinted lenses of his aviator’s glasses. “You don’t get this kind of return without some risk. But the diversification keeps it within sound limits. If—and it’s not very likely—the bottom dropped out of local real estate tomorrow, we’d be cushioned by our other sectors. It’s the same principle used by the most successful mutual funds. We just apply it to local and regional markets. An investment area, I’m pleased to say, that we pioneered.”
I made a few notes on a small yellow pad. Iacino had given me a glossy brochure th
at showed a well-dressed, gray-haired couple smiling widely at an equally smiling dark-suited figure handing them a check. The caption urged readers to make their retirement money work harder by purchasing shares in Mountain and Mesa Investments. “And the initial share is ten thousand?”
“Yes, sir. After the initial buy-in we offer the opportunity for incremental purchases in five-thousand-dollar amounts.” He added, “Many of our clients find that the income from a one-hundred-thousand-dollar investment is quite suitable for their retirement needs.” He shrugged. “It all depends on your tax situation and age. Many of our investors combine their social security with their dividends.” He smiled again. “I assume you’ll be starting a second career and would prefer to let the dividends accrue until you reach sixty-five?”
I nodded. As one more recently retired government employee seeking better return on my accumulated retirement fund, Mountain and Mesa had caught my eye. “Well, I like the idea of using the money to develop local businesses. It seems to be responsible capitalism.”
“Oh, yes—well put. The local economy profits … and so do we.”
“I understand Alef Distributing is in your portfolio. Can you give me an idea of how well it performs?”
“If it’s there, it must be doing well!” He turned to a computer terminal and punched up a menu. Then he rattled keys. A few moments later a printer clattered into life. Iacino tore off a page and scanned it before handing it to me. “You can see it has a very impressive earnings record.”
It did—on paper at least. Over the last three years, the company’s investment had returned an average of twenty-three percent.
“They must do a tremendous business.”
“Well. I don’t have access to their detailed statement, just to our returns from them. But, yes, it must be good. I think it’s typical of our portfolio, Mr. Steele. That’s the kind of business we locate and develop. That’s why we can almost guarantee our high yield every year.”
“I didn’t know distribution was so profitable.”
“They’re certainly doing something right, aren’t they? But as I say, our expertise is the local economy, and we constantly monitor the earnings of each and every investment. We know which companies will pay off.”
“Exactly what does Alef distribute?”
“Well … I’m not sure. But I can check with our market analyst on that, Mr. Steele. All I have here is the bottom line. Are there other holdings you’d like to know about?”
I had the man select two or three at random and, though they didn’t come near the profitability of Alef, they contributed handsomely to the company’s returns. Finally, I shook hands and gathered up my brochures and graphs and told a slightly disappointed Iacino I would think carefully about the investment.
A lot of money. Low costs and high profits added up to a lot of money being made by Alef. Those profits could come from volume trade or an outrageous margin on each item. Or a combination. On a product that no one seemed able to identify …
The blinking light on my answering machine told me I had a message and I ran the tape to Play. A cautious voice whispered, “Mr. Steele, this is Dori Wilcox. I’m at the Temple in Denver. I’ve found out something horrible—it’s horrible—please help me. I’ll try to call again. Please help!”
Now she understood what the phrase “born again” meant—well, not meant, exactly, but felt like. It felt like you were suddenly light and free and clean. All the dark and heavy thoughts and nagging worries, all the restlessness that made nights sweaty and broken, all that was gone. Gone, too, was the weary feeling that for so long had robbed each day of its freshness so that she had even forgotten what it was like to welcome a morning. She felt like a little girl, childlike in touching with eye and finger the brilliant colors of a flower, in losing herself in the slow, awesome shifting and magic of towering clouds, in discovering a sweet sense of kinship with all other living things. Now she woke to each day eagerly and happily, now she slept at night with a sigh of contentment and a prayer of gratitude for the blessing of God’s generous forgiveness and the kindness of the Pastor’s guidance.
When she first arrived, she had been suspicious of the happiness she saw in the others. She had distrusted the comfort they found in the passages from the Vedas that they read and meditated on twice a day. They were putting on a charade of wide-eyed smiling faces and mild answers, trying to convince themselves as well as her that they knew the secret of living with joy. But, as the Pastor gently reminded her, she had come to the ashram of her own free will to see—so why not truly see? Why not set aside her suspicions and preconceptions, her worldly cynicism, and just use her eyes and ears and soul and let them tell her mind what they discovered, instead of her telling her senses what to see?
She still could not point to the exact moment of revelation. Some could—Sister Jolene said it was when she was meditating late one night and suddenly she saw herself through her third eye, and from that new angle of vision and distance wondered why that anxious person below was struggling so hard against something that was so simple and good for her. Something that was there waiting for her to take it up. From that moment on, Sister Jolene said, she accepted, and in accepting, had found the Peace of Spirit that others in the Temple shared.
But for her, the acceptance had come more slowly, and in small stages. Perhaps because she had so much more to slough off than Sister Jolene or some of the others. Perhaps because she had a deeper reservoir of cynicism and distrust of herself as well as of others. Still, come it had, and she remembered that morning when she woke early, long before the others and while the sun was only a pink streak low under the cool gray of dawn. Alone, she had climbed the stairs to the roof and settled to watch the world stir into life, and then she realized she felt peace. Deep, pervasive, thorough peace. And acceptance.
It was what Dwayne had tried to tell her. It was what he said Shirley had discovered, too. But she hadn’t believed him. At first she would not believe either in the peace she seemed to have found or in Dwayne’s claim that Pastor Pettes and the Temple of the Shining Spirit had cleansed him of his submission to Satan. And Shirley, who had gone up to the lodge before Dori arrived at the Temple, wasn’t around to tell her if what Dwayne said about her was true. But he didn’t insist. Not even in the subtle way he used to have of insisting even while he talked about letting people do what they wanted to. Instead, he stepped back and left her to talk to Pastor Pettes and the others as she would, left her to the quiet and benevolent—that was the only word—guidance of the Pastor. And, gradually, she had discovered what that peace was and that she could share in it.
She and Dwayne and the baby.
As if, at the end of a long and weary journey that seemed to have no direction, suddenly she glimpsed a place of rest and welcome.
CHAPTER 28
DORI HAD NOT called back and my calls to the Temple were answered by a taped message that gave the office hours, urged a turning away from earthly concerns, and told where to send donations. I tried to reach Shaughnessy but he was out of the office and the clerk wouldn’t give me the man’s home number. Standard procedure, but it made things damned awkward. I left a message for him citing Dori’s words and asked that he request the Denver police to interview the girl as soon as possible. Calling the airlines, I reserved a standby ticket on the last red-eye to Denver. Then I telephoned the admiral and Henry to tell them about it. They both urged me to go and wanted to know what they could do to help. Finally, I telephoned Karen and told her I’d be out of town for a little while.
“Colorado? Why do you have to go there?
“It might have something to do with this mess, Karen. I’ll let you know as soon as I’m back.”
Megan wasn’t home. Since she refused to get an answering machine, I couldn’t tell her I might not be back by Friday. Maybe the admiral would tell her where I was. Maybe I’d better wrap this up and get my butt back by then.
This late at night the palm-lined roads looping around the ai
rport lay empty under the metallic glare of streetlights. I checked in at the ticket counter and was told the gate number. Then I settled into one of the molded plastic seats to wait. Loading started with the usual call for people traveling with children, those needing assistance, and those flying first-class. When the final section of reserved seats had been summoned, I and a few others stood at the counter while the crew checked the passenger manifest. Finally my name was called and I hurried down the loading ramp.
Most of the flight was spent in restless drowsing and uneasy thoughts. The seat backs, curved to fit everyone, fit no one. A pillow finally gave me support for the small of my back and an aisle seat let me stretch my legs. Half-awake, I glimpsed the icy white of a full moon gleaming on the tops of cumulus clouds and felt the lurch of air pockets. When finally we glided down the Rockies and over the sprawling grid of lights that was Denver, it was 3:00 A.M. Mountain Time, and the long day’s weariness had settled into a headache that pressed against the tops of my eyeballs. A sleepy clerk filled out the paperwork for the rental car. A shuttle finally took me through the chilly night air to the vehicle compound.
I tried the Temple again at seven-thirty from my motel. This time a breathy female voice answered, “Temple of the Shining Spirit.”
“May I speak to Sister Dori, please. It’s a family emergency.”
“ … Just a moment. I’ll see if she’s here.”
It was more than a moment before a male voice came on. “Sister Dori’s in meditation right now. Who’s calling, please?”
“Jack Steele. I’ve just arrived from San Diego, and I have a very important message from her father.”
“I can deliver it to her.”
“No. He asked me to tell her myself. It’s personal.”
“Well, we can’t interrupt meditation. If you want to call back after nine, you can speak with Pastor Pettes.”
“No. I’ll come by and speak with Sister Dori.”
“Well, I’m afraid—”
I hung up on the voice and plunged under the heat of a scalding shower. A quick breakfast and then I threaded my way across east Denver in the morning rush hour. This time when I parked in the guest slot behind the red-brick building, the children in the day-care center were gathered in a circle on the far side of the sandy playground. Sister Rhona, even more pregnant, looked up from the desk on the converted back porch.