Satan’s Lambs

by Lynn Hightower

  “You do that.”

  Lena turned left off Rose Street, onto the UK campus. She passed an empty guard booth and parked the Cutlass. It was dark out, raining. She locked the car and ran up twelve concrete steps to the sidewalk.

  The Funkhouser Building was an old brown brick monster. There were at least six ways to get in—not counting the black metal fire escapes that ran down the ivy-covered sides. The Funkhouser had been built before security concerns tainted the architectural vision.

  She went in from the side, up steps that were rain slick and worn. Inside, the black-flecked linoleum was muddy and wet, and Lena felt her shoes slide. She walked carefully up four flights of stairs to the second floor. Huge radiators, painted creamy white, hissed and emitted bursts of heat. The hall smelled like a laundromat.

  Lena wandered down the hallway until she found room 207. She hadn’t been in the Funkhouser Building since Psych. 102. She had gotten a C minus.

  Dr. Caron looked younger than he sounded on the phone. He sat on the edge of an old wooden desk, cleaning a pair of wire-rim glasses while he talked to his students. There were circles under his eyes. He was clean shaven, though it was high time for another one, and his clothes looked as if they’d been slept in. He wore brown corduroy pants and a red-and-black flannel shirt. There were felt-tip pens in his pocket.

  “Sounds like you guys had a better spring break than I did,” he said absently. “Anyway.” He frowned at the thick lenses of his glasses, then put them on. “Next week we get back to the books.” He waved a hand at the board. “So be sure and get the reading down.”

  Page numbers and cryptic abbreviations were scrawled in small, knotlike handwriting at the top left corner of the board. On the other side of the board, someone had been playing hangman with red and blue chalk.

  Murmurs broke out and chairs scooted back. Seven or eight students were packing up notebooks and scrambling for umbrellas. They watched as Lena approached the desk.

  “Dr. Caron?”

  “Hi. I’m Walt Caron.” He took her hand. “You’re Lena?”

  “Yes.”

  He looked over her shoulder at his students. “See you next week.”

  They took the hint and left. He closed the heavy wooden door.

  “Okay if we talk here? My office is across campus in the med. center.”

  “Sure,” Lena said.

  It was a large room, and it felt larger at night, with the lights bright, and darkness filling the gallery of windows that lined both outside walls. Lena shivered. The room was filled with tables and chairs. She sat down on a table and looked at Caron.

  “I appreciate you seeing me on the instant like this.”

  He shrugged and leaned against his desk, cocking his head sideways. “Valerie said it was pretty important.”

  “It is.”

  “How do you know Valerie? Did you meet at …” Caron spread his hands.

  “At the crisis center?” Lena smiled. “Not the way you’re thinking.”

  “I meant as a volunteer.”

  “No.” Lena looked out a window. “How do you know Valerie?”

  “I did my doctoral dissertation out there. And Valerie and I used to see each other. Way back.”

  “You’re that Walt.”

  “Yeah.” He laughed. “Why? What’d she say?”

  “Nothing bad, honest. She tell you anything about my sister?”

  Caron blushed. “Actually, she did.”

  “Good. It’ll give us a jumping-off point, because this is kind of connected. Jeff Hayes was my sister’s husband. Her killer. He got out of prison a few weeks back.”

  Caron sat back on the edge of the desk. His expression was interested, alert without being avid, good eye contact. A good therapist, Lena decided, though she didn’t think he saw patients. Talent waste.

  “This is complicated, but a client of mine was once married to one of Jeff’s … associates. Cohorts. Partners in crime.” Lena grimaced. “This man also just got out of prison. For reasons that are too complicated to go into, this man, this Archie Valetta, kidnapped my client’s son. He’s four years old and his name is Charlie.”

  “Is he Valetta’s son?”

  “No.”

  “Sorry. Go on.”

  “Valetta took the child with him to Tennessee, and a couple of days later got himself killed in a motel room.”

  Caron tensed. “And the boy?”

  Lena shook her head. “Don’t know. He wasn’t in the room. We don’t know for sure what happened to him.”

  “How can I help?”

  Lena liked him for it. Why had Valerie let this guy go?

  She gave him a small smile. “I have reason to think … I’ll be honest with you, I don’t know for sure. The killing was likely some kind of cult hit. And Jeff and Valetta were involved with a cult before they wound up in jail. I think maybe Jeff either has the boy or knows where he is. Did Valerie tell you anything about Jeff’s involvement with cults?”

  He nodded. “Yeah. It’s in my line.”

  “I know. We’re talking about an entrenched family type of group. One he grew up in.”

  Caron nodded.

  “I found Jeff’s old Book of Shadows. You know what that is?”

  “A kind of occult diary. A journal of activity.”

  “Right. And he talks about a cousin of his. I know a little bit about this cousin. Her name is Melody Hayes, and she was born in LaRue County, Nash, Kentucky, in 1954. And she was, and may still be, in some kind of mental institution. Jeff’s book talks about M being tortured in the ceremonies, and I think it’s probably her. So I want to find her. Because she might be able to tell me some names of people involved in Jeff’s group. I can’t go door to door, you know, asking about devil worshipers. If I can get a lead on some of the people in the group, they may know about Charlie. They may even have him. I know it’s a hell of a long shot. I know Archie may have killed the little boy and dumped the body. I can’t tell you I have some kind of psychic feeling Charlie’s alive, I can only tell you I hope he is, and I’m trying to find him any way I can. The police are following up the Tennessee end. But I think that Jeff knows where Charlie is. Anyway, does any of this make any sense?”

  Caron frowned and walked around the desk, settling in a ladder-back chair. He took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. “How much background do you have in satanic cults?”

  “Only what I pick up from my relatives.”

  He smiled and leaned back in his chair. “This is something of a speciality of mine. I got involved about ten years ago, with students on campus. The kids, you know, they’re usually just dabblers, misfits, plain curious. Mainly, they’re a danger to themselves, with drug abuse, or suicide. What you’re talking about, though, is a hardcore, long-term adult group. I haven’t done any counseling in that area. But I’ve studied up. And you’re closer on track than you realize. What’s the date exactly? It’s the seventeenth, isn’t it?” He made a face. “You get your income tax done?”

  “Yeah. Easy enough with my income.”

  He frowned. “There’s a dangerous time coming up, if the cult really does have the boy. The end of April, around Easter. I think maybe the twenty-fourth, or the thirtieth. Let’s see, there’s St. Mark’s Eve and Walpurgis Night … or is that February? I’m sorry, I’ll have to check some notes. But the point is it’s a very big event. One that particularly might pose danger to a male child.”

  Lena slid slowly into a chair.

  “What do you mean, particular danger?”

  Caron sighed deeply. “A pure white male sacrifice. Prized for this particular sabbat.” He shook his head. “I don’t know if I should have brought it up. Most satanic groups don’t do sacrifices, certainly not human. But the kind of group you and Valerie describe, and considering Hayes’s track record and Valetta’s death. They sound like a serious bunch. I’m sorry.”

  “So.” Lena swallowed. “Time’s running out.”

  “I could be way off base.”
r />   “No. You just said out loud the kind of stuff I’ve been worrying about. But what about now? You think he’s being hurt right now? Molested? Every minute he’s gone, who knows what could be happening to this boy.”

  Caron chewed his fingernails, noticed what he was doing, and stopped. “You’re right, anything could be happening. But if it is what you’re worrying about, that he is in the hands of this cult Hayes ties up with, understand how it can work. A Satan worshiper who molests children is different from the typical pedophile. In the typical situation, you have an adult who genuinely may love a child and can’t comprehend that sex with a child is wrong.”

  “Crap. I don’t believe that for a minute.”

  Caron’s jaw tightened, then relaxed. “Okay, it’s one theory, for certain situations. In any case, a pedophile wants to be around the child, and has constant urges. Let’s say he knows it’s wrong. He still has those urges. In this situation, though, with a satanist, there is no anger, and no abnormal love. The child is a means to an end. The abuse is ritual abuse. And done only in context of the ritual. It may satisfy their perverted urges, but they justify it as ritual.”

  “Can we cut to the chase here, Walt? You’re saying that, if we’re lucky, they may be saving him up? And if I get to him in time, they won’t have molested him?”

  “That’s pretty much what I’m saying.”

  Lena grabbed the edge of the desk, clenching and unclenching her fingers. “All right. I need you to help me find this Melody Hayes. Do institutions specialize? Would any of your co-workers know where she might be? Patient lists …”

  “This is very sticky, you know.” He thought for a moment, absently scratching his cheek. “Here’s what I can do. Some of the people I’ve worked with here, over the years, have been working in the area of multiple personality.”

  “So?”

  “Understand. The kind of cult we’re talking about here, where they take children, and subject them to ritual abuse from an early age, may create victims that are multiples. The theory is that the satanists are intentionally creating alter personalities—you could speculate forever on why. Paths for demons, whatever, who knows? But their methods of abuse, putting a young child through extremes of torture, often by a parent or grandparent, a figure of trust, will cause the child to fragment, to create alter personalities, because the child can’t integrate their experiences of good and bad. So if you work with multiples—and there are still therapists who don’t believe that multiples exist, by the way—but if you work in that area, a healthy percentage of the patients come from this kind of hardcore cult background. Not all children subjected to this sort of thing are multiples, of course. But there is a lot of networking, very informal, with colleagues who treat the multiples and other cult victims. I know some folks who do quite a lot of work in this area, and I consult with them when I work with my teenagers—whose problems are quite different, actually.

  “So I can ask around about this cousin. Explain what’s at stake. Just understand two things. Melody Hayes will not be put through anything that will hurt her. And she’ll have to agree to talk to you. And if her therapist doesn’t want her messed with, that’ll be the end of it.”

  Lena nodded. “Remember, though. Charlie is four.”

  Caron narrowed his eyes. “That’s the only reason I’m even considering helping you. That and Valerie, who twisted my arm, to tell you the truth.”

  “What’s the second thing?”

  “There is some risk, in me putting the word out, that information will get to the wrong person. I don’t want to be overly paranoid, but you never know who might be involved in these groups. Some of them could be doctors and nurses. Some of them psychiatrists. Parents involved in these cults have ties to mental health people from day one. They want their child to have a record of mental disorders, or problems, so that if they do grow up and point fingers, they’re labeled as being disturbed from a young age.”

  “I don’t understand the why of all this.”

  He chewed a thumbnail. “It comes down sometimes to—are there evil people, or just very sick ones.”

  “You don’t believe in evil, do you, Walter?”

  “I didn’t use to. I try not to. In my line of work, you know? But one thing I do think. These people, these hardcore ones. They’re very angry folks. Doctors and nurses who see too many people die, and feel betrayed. They want to believe in something, but they’ve quit believing in a loving God. Some of them are ministers. Some are just people in pain who turned to traditional religions and got smacked in the head with the seven deadly sins. You find people who are trying to control their world. And satisfy all of the hedonistic urges. And there’s plenty of the pathetic ones—ones who could never find acceptance, friendship, love, for whatever reasons. Dysfunctional people who get what they need from being one of the group. It’s, forgive me, an exciting social outlet, that gives them all the no-nos their little hearts desire.”

  Lena stared absently at Caron’s feet. He wore scuffed Hush Puppies, the left one untied, laces wet and muddy.

  “I don’t know how big a risk it is, Walt,” she said finally. “But go with it and do what you can. We don’t have a lot of time.”

  “One more thing I need to say.”

  Lena stood up. “What?”

  “There’s two ways to survive a childhood like that. Turn inward. Shrink. Disintegrate in alters. Or you can do what Jeff Hayes did. Go from victim to victimizer.”

  “I assume you’re not asking me to admire the man?”

  “Of course not. But like it or not, he’s just as much a victim as Melody or Charlie.”

  “Jesus, you sound like a shrink.”

  24

  The front porch light was out when Lena got home. Had she left it on that morning? She frowned. She’d locked the sliding glass door, checked the answering machine, turned the coffee maker off in the kitchen and … yeah. Turned on the porch light.

  The bulb might have burned out. Or maybe … maybe Hayes had turned the light off. Maybe he was inside, waiting.

  Mendez was in Knoxville. Next door, the Wilkses’ house looked dark and empty. She didn’t know the people on the other side of her house.

  She got back in her car and drove to a gas station with a pay phone.

  Lena sat in the Cutlass with the doors locked and watched the house. No lights had gone on, no face had peered through the windows. The light had burned out on her front porch, and she was being silly. So what if Hayes was inside? She needed to talk to him anyway. If he could get her Charlie, she could get him money.

  Still, she had no urge to go into the house alone.

  Rick’s Miata pulled up in the driveway, headlights arcing across the garage door. Rick left the engine running and ran across the lawn to the Cutlass.

  “Lena? Good girl, I was afraid you’d go in.”

  “Hi, honey.” Judith waved. She was tall, five nine, with a full curvy figure and short blond hair. She was a presence, in black velvet leggings and a T-shirt that glittered. “We got a surprise for you, Lena.”

  “Yeah,” Rick said. “Come on.”

  He took her hand and led her up the driveway. Lena heard a cat miaow.

  “Maynard!”

  She let go of Rick’s hand and ran to the car. Maynard was in the front seat, nose pressed against the side of his kitty carrier.

  “Oh, sweetie, oh, Maynard.”

  “Told you,” Judith said.

  Rick sniffed. “She was never that glad to see me.”

  Lena opened the carrier and picked up her cat. Maynard purred loudly and butted his head under her chin.

  Rick cleared his throat. “You girls stay here where it’s safe. Call the cops if I don’t come back in a half hour.”

  Lena hugged Maynard and Judith tugged his tail. The cat miaowed. He licked Lena’s thumb.

  “Oh, Lena, he’s giving you kisses.”

  “Maybe a half hour is too long,” Rick said thoughtfully. “Probably fifteen minutes is plenty
.” He patted his pockets. “Where’s my key? Okay. Here it is.”

  “Sorry about the bathroom rug,” Lena said to Judith.

  “I never liked it. Rick just had it when we moved in together.”

  “I picked it out,” Lena said. “I was in my geometric phase. Rick took it when we split.”

  “Me and my mouth, sugar.”

  “Girls. Could I have your attention, here? I’m going on up now.”

  “Not by yourself,” Lena said. “Let me go with you.”

  “No, it’s too dangerous. Give me ten minutes. If I’m not back, you call somebody. Somebody big. Call Arnold Schwarzenegger.”

  “Be still my heart,” Judith said.

  “Rick, who are you doing? It’s not Mel Gibson, is it?” Lena scratched Maynard behind the ears.

  “It’s not Mel Gibson,” Judith said. “When he does Mel Gibson, he winks a lot. Is it Michael Douglas?”

  “No,” said Lena. “When he does Michael Douglas he sticks his chin out.”

  Rick, two steps away on the driveway, turned and glared at them. “Thank you very much. It’s not enough for the two of you that I might get killed by this psychopath—”

  Judith leaned close to Lena. “Sugar, is he serious or is he doing righteous indignation?”

  “Did he change clothes before he left?”

  “No.”

  “Serious.” Lena put Maynard back in the carrier. “Rick, I think we should all go together.”

  “Not a chance.”

  “Rick, if there are three of us Jeff will just run off, he won’t hang around. And the phone’s inside. We could call for help, unless he cut the line.”

  “He didn’t,” Judith said. “Rick thought of that. He called to see if your phone was working. The answering machine was full, but your line was okay.”

  “Rick,” Lena said. “You thought of that?”

  “Yes, I did. I’ve done Agatha Christie, you know, on the dinner theater circuit.”

  “I know. Look, Rick, let’s just go in together, okay?”

  He bounced up and down on the balls of his feet. “If you really think it’s for the best.”

  “I do.”

  “Avoid that phrase, Lena. It’s gotten us in trouble once already.”