Satan’s Lambs

by Lynn Hightower

  “I’ll be damned,” Ted said.

  “The clinic. Let’s see. Belongs to a Delgado, Charlene Delgado.” Lena chewed her lip. “Charlene. Charlene. Oh, Jesus H. Christ.”

  “What?”

  “That’s the secretary, the one at the clinic. The last one to see Charlie. Mendez and I talked to her. She said Valetta brought Charlie in and didn’t act right with him, and that she was worried about him. She said he seemed hungry and she gave him suckers. She sat there …” Lena felt her face getting red. “She sat there and cried, that bitch. And promised to call if she remembered anything. Oh, God, how stupid. Mendez and Hackburton, investigating the hell out of that Dr. Whitter because she seemed so guilty. And all along it was that secretary and her crocodile tears. Shit.” Lena wadded the list of license numbers and jammed it in her pocket. She looked at Ted. “That’s why Charlie hasn’t been seen since. She took him. She’s had him all this time.” Lena peered in the windows of the car, jerking the door handles. She moved away into the trees, and came back with a large rock.

  Moberly caught her arm.

  “Lena, what are you doing?”

  “Breaking in, and don’t try to stop me.”

  “Put that rock down and hold still. I mean it. Hold still. I’ll be right back.”

  Ted headed back through the woods to the Jeep. Lena looked through the car windows. McDonald’s bag, a folded copy of The Knoxville News Sentinel, an empty can of Sprite. No little boys sleeping on the seat.

  “You’d make a lousy car thief,” Moberly said. “You don’t even watch your back.”

  “Shit. Don’t scare me like that.”

  Moberly held a slender strip of metal. He pushed it down between the top of the window and the rubber molding. The metal caught the door lock and pulled it up and open.

  “Where’d you get that?” Lena said.

  “People are always locking their keys in their car. Pretty inconvenient, way out here. Just be glad she didn’t have those theft-proof locks.” He opened the driver’s door and reached across, unlocking the passenger’s door on the other side. “I’ll take the front, you take the back.”

  Lena went to the other side of the car. It was a two-door. She fumbled for the latch at the base of the seat, and pushed it up and out of the way.

  Moberly was rummaging in the McDonald’s bag. “Big Mac,” he muttered. “Phew. Large fries. Ah. Happy Meal.” He looked at Lena, and held up a multicolored cardboard box. “Chicken McNuggets. Didn’t eat all his french fries. Barbecue sauce. Aw.”

  Lena looked up.

  Moberly held up a plastic hamburger man on wheels, still in the cellophane bag. “He didn’t get his toy.” Moberly tucked the toy in his shirt pocket. “Lena, don’t you cry on me now.”

  “I’m not.”

  “Sure you’re not.”

  There were newspapers on the back seat. And wads of tissue. Lena looked down at the floor of the car. One of the newspapers had been shredded into small pieces—odd, irregular shapes torn out. She scanned the back seat, looking for the signature mosaic. She looked over the seat at the back ledge and caught her breath.

  “What is it?” Ted asked.

  “He was here.”

  “What?”

  “Come look.”

  Moberly leaned over the front seat. Lena pointed.

  “Dust,” Moberly said. “And torn-up newspaper.”

  “You don’t understand. Go get Eloise. Let her look at it. She’ll know.”

  Moberly stared at Lena, eyes dark and worried. “He really was here, wasn’t he?”

  “Go get his mother. He really was here.”

  Eloise Valetta came quickly, stumbling through the underbrush, the patch over her eye sliding sideways. She stopped at the car door and looked at Lena.

  “Eloise, I want you to try and clear your mind, and just answer one quick question. You say sometimes you and Charlie liked to go to McDonald’s?”

  Eloise nodded.

  “What did he like there? What did he want you to order?”

  Eloise began to breathe hard. “You found him,” she said. “He’s dead.”

  “No,” Lena said. “He’s not dead. But I think he was here in this car. Take deep slow breaths, Eloise. You okay? Now what did he like to order?”

  “I … God, my mind is a blank.”

  “It’s okay. Take your time.”

  “He … he liked. Oh. Those nugget things.”

  “Chicken McNuggets?”

  “Yeah. He … that’s right. He’d have a Chicken McNugget Happy Meal, with barbecue sauce, french fries, and ketchup. And he usually left two McNuggets, and about half of the french fries.”

  Lena looked at Moberly.

  “Right on the money,” he said.

  “Okay, Eloise. Now I want you to look at this newspaper on the floor of the car. See that?”

  “Yeah.” Eloise’s voice had gone high-pitched and breathy.

  “Move over, Ted. Can you look over the seat okay? Look at the back ledge and tell me what you think.”

  Lena held her breath.

  “Oh, Lena, oh, my God, he was here. Charlie done that. He was here.” Eloise’s breath came quick and hard, and tears rolled down her cheek.

  Lena held her shoulders. “Keep it together, El. Don’t fall apart on me now.”

  “Lena—”

  “Come on, sweetheart.” Ted Moberly put his arms around Eloise and pulled her gently from the car. “Come on, back to the Jeep.”

  “But he—”

  “He’s not in the car now, Eloise. You come on back to the Jeep with me.” He looked over his shoulder at Lena. “No mud on the tires. This has been here since yesterday, anyway. You lock it up, put everything just like it was. They may check back, and we don’t want anybody getting suspicious. Don’t want anything to get in the way of tonight’s big party, before we get there.” He looked at Lena. “You and me. We’ll get the boy back.”

  47

  Shelly and Neil stood side by side, their eyes wide and alert. Eloise sat on the edge of the living room couch. Sometimes she looked at Lena. Sometimes at Neil.

  Ted Moberly held up a shotgun. He broke it open and offered it to Shelly.

  “Now, I loaded it for you, see there?”

  Shelly nodded.

  Moberly snapped the gun back into place and handed it to his daughter. “You know how to use it. Jordan should be here in an hour. Until then, anybody you don’t know tries to come in here”—he looked at Eloise—“you get on the radio. Shelly”—he looked at his daughter—“you plug ’em.”

  “Aim for the knees?”

  “No, baby. Tonight you aim at the chest or stomach. Tonight is serious business. Just don’t open that door for anybody but Jordan.”

  Neil took hold of Shelly’s hand, his eyes wide. Moberly grimaced.

  “Should have sent you upstairs before the lecture.” He bent down, balancing on his haunches. “Neil, this is all just in case. Nothing’s going to happen. If I thought it would, I wouldn’t leave you. And if something does go wrong”—he patted the dog—“Sally here is a super good watchdog. She won’t let anybody bother you. Just knowing she’s around will keep most folks away. And Mr. Jordan will be here before too long. You going to be all right?”

  Neil nodded. “Shouldn’t you call the police?”

  “Son, the police we trust are a long way away. We tried, but they weren’t at their office.”

  “Can I have a gun? Like Shelly?”

  “No sir, not yet. You want to learn to shoot?”

  “Sure do.”

  “I got rules for that. You don’t touch that shotgun, it’s loaded. You be good, and tomorrow I’ll take you out and get you started. “You’re awful young. But if you’re ready to try, I’m willing. A boy who is big enough to leave a loaded gun alone when he’s told to, is big enough to start learning. We understand each other?”

  Neil nodded. “Yes sir.”

  “Good.” Moberly stroked the boy’s head. “It’s full dark n
ow and we got to go. You kids take care of Ms. Valetta, you hear?”

  They nodded.

  “I’ll be back. Now, I got three movies I rented for you, so watch the VCR all night, if you want. Make popcorn and hole up together in here.”

  The kids grinned. Eloise Valetta watched Neil.

  “Be good,” Moberly said. Sally followed him to the door. “Sally, stay.”

  She whimpered.

  “Guard, Sally.” He opened the door.

  Sally yelped and barked once.

  “Sally.”

  The black Lab lay down, and sank her head between her paws.

  “Stay now, girl. Guard.” Moberly looked at Shelly. “Lock this door behind me.”

  Lena followed him out onto the porch. Moberly paused, listening to the locks click into place.

  “We could wait till your friend gets here,” Lena said.

  “No. We’re cutting it close as it is. We got a ways to go just to get there.”

  Lena headed for the Jeep.

  “Not that way,” Moberly said. “Come on.”

  He headed around the back of the house, past a small black barn, then into the woods. It was dark now. The ground sloped downward, and Lena followed slowly. She went left through the underbrush. Moberly grabbed her arm.

  “Poison ivy,” he said. He pulled her to the right-hand side of the path. “This way.”

  They went another fifteen feet, then they were out of the woods, angling down a slope of wet sandy soil.

  “Moberly’s Landing,” he said.

  A canoe was turned upside down in the dirt. A small flat fishing boat floated in the water, a neat black engine mounted on the back.

  “Damn,” Moberly said. “Forgot the gas can.” He reached in his pocket and pulled out two black cotton socks. “Fill these with sand, I’ll be right back.”

  “What for?”

  “It’ll come to you.”

  The sandy dirt was wet and clumpy. Lena dug with her hands for a while, then got a stick to gouge it up and loosen it. Grit collected under her fingernails. The wind blew her hair in her eyes. She pushed it out of the way with the back of her hands.

  It took a while to fill both the socks.

  “’Bout halfway,” Moberly told her. He filled the boat’s engine with gasoline, then cranked it like a lawn mower with a handle and cord. The sudden buzz was loud.

  Lena looked up. “They’ll sure know we’re coming.”

  “We’ll cut the engine before we get close. We got to get there sometime tonight, you know. You ’bout got those socks done?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You figured it out?”

  Lena swung one in the air and Moberly ducked, though he was several feet away in the boat.

  “As good as your baseball bat, and a lot less awkward. You just don’t have the reach.”

  “I’m glad I met up with you, Moberly. It’s nice to learn all this backwoods lore.”

  “Come on and get in.”

  Moberly brought the boat in close. Lena moved carefully, but the boat jiggled from side to side. The water was filmy along the shoreline.

  “This won’t be as much fun as the canoe,” Moberly said, his voice raised to carry over the engine.

  “How come you don’t have one of those big motorboats? Ranger patrol and all?”

  “It’s being painted. And anyway, talk about advertising your presence. This is my sneak-up boat. This and that old canoe. Untie the line—not from the boat end, Lena, from the dock end. And watch your fingers. Get them mashed, if you don’t watch out.”

  The rope was damp, but the knot was fat and easy to untie. Moberly twisted the throttle and turned the handle of the motor. The boat turned and moved out on the lake. The wind blew Lena’s hair behind her, and her sweater billowed and flapped.

  The night air was cool. Lena trailed a finger in the water. The breath of the lake was warm.

  They ran without lights in the darkness. As they eased into deeper water, white mist rose from the surface of the lake, shrouding the way just ahead. Lena lost her bearings. Moberly guided them across open water, around juts of peninsula, and into larger sections of lake. The water was still until they churned it, spewing white froth behind them and sending ripples to lap at the shore.

  Moberly cut the engine, and the boat slowed. He pointed. Lena looked back in the trees and saw the hazy glow of a bonfire. Tiny pinpoints of light made a pathway through the trees.

  “Flashlights,” Lena said softly. “Flashlights in the trees, showing the way.”

  Moberly dredged a paddle from the bottom of the boat. He dipped it into the water with practiced, rhythmic strokes.

  “You going right up there?” Lena said.

  “No. We’ll go around, place I know. Hush now. Voices carry over water.”

  They bypassed the landing closest to the bonfire. Lena counted two fishing boats, three power boats, and a ponderous pontoon boat, riding the gentle swell of their wake. Moberly paddled around the jut of the shoreline. Lena looked over her shoulder. She could just make out the fire.

  They glided in. Pebbles and grit scraped the bottom of the boat. Moberly stuck his paddle in the sand, steadying them. The boat rocked from side to side as he stepped in water to his ankles. He balanced on a rock and pulled the line, dragging the boat up onto the sandy beach. He tied his rope to a marker that said Wild Geese Sanctuary.

  The path was thick with dead leaves, but Moberly moved silently. Occasionally he looked back at Lena, and she wondered if he thought she was too slow or too noisy. Probably both. Now and then something rustled in the brush. Bird, Lena wondered? Rabbit? She looked over her shoulder.

  Moberly stopped suddenly, and put a finger to his lips. He seemed to be listening. Lena held her breath. Gradually she became aware of the crunch of dead leaves underfoot. Someone was moving their way. Lena smelled the sudden, acrid scent of cigarette smoke.

  The man came within a few feet, his back to them. He was close enough for Lena to see the gun tucked into the back of his pants.

  The man took a deep drag of his cigarette, then walked on. Lena breathed again, as quietly as possible. Moberly put a hand on her shoulder and squeezed. He bent down and whispered in her ear.

  “Sentry,” he said. “We got some pretty serious campers here. There’ll probably be at least one more, maybe two, that we’ll have to get by. Best if they never know we’re here—they may be reporting in. Be quieter, Lena.”

  She nodded, wondering how.

  The next sentry was easy to spot, swaggering noisily up and down, with an automatic rifle slung over his shoulder. Lena fingered the sock of wet sand.

  The sentry froze, hefted the automatic rifle, and snapped the bolt. Lena looked at Moberly. He grimaced, and pointed.

  “Tell him not to shoot,” Moberly said. “Then walk on out there. Go on. Just do it.”

  Lena took a deep breath. “It’s me,” she said loudly. “Don’t shoot.”

  “Me who?” the man said. “Come on out where I can see you.”

  Lena felt sweat start on her back. She crashed through a bush, and out onto the trail.

  “Boy, am I glad to see you.” Lena smiled. “I got turned around. How do I get back?”

  The man lowered the rifle. “How’d you wander so far off? Oh, I know you, you were here last time.”

  “Yeah,” Lena said. “Weren’t you—”

  The man groaned and pitched forward. Moberly stood behind him, breathing hard.

  Lena bent close to the man on the ground. He looked to be in his late twenties, face round and pale, thick blond hair falling into his eyes. A radio, emitting a faint crackling noise, was wedged in his belt. Lena picked it up and turned the volume down.

  “Let’s go.”

  Lena smelled wood smoke. A ways farther in she saw pinpoint lights hanging in the trees. She and Moberly circled closer.

  The fire was huge and healthy—a roaring orange inferno. Dirty white smoke swirled upward through bare skeletal branches. People mi
lled close by, most of them dressed in jeans or slacks, and tennis shoes, all of them holding black bundles. More men than women in this group. They laughed and talked quietly. Lena smelled cigarette smoke, and a pipe. And there, just a trace, but definite. Somebody passing a joint.

  A man in a black robe moved with assurance close in to the fire.

  “Heeeere’s Johnny,” Lena said.

  Moberly grimaced. “People in robes with hoods like that give me the creeps.”

  The man, the leader, put a wooden bowl down into the coals. Lena caught a faint, sweet odor. People began slipping behind the trees, shedding their clothes, coming back to the circle in their robes.

  Moberly looked at Lena. “I don’t see the boy, do you?”

  She shook her head.

  48

  The chants rose like smoke, the words singsongy and impossible to make out. Someone—several someones, and brawny—had dragged a stone altar before the fire, and a bowl of liquid had been passed around. Lena noticed that the leader didn’t drink.

  Was this Mr. Enoch, this man in the dark robe, his face cowled and oddly elongated in the firelight?

  Lena lay in the dirt on her stomach, inches away from Ted Moberly. The scent of wet muddy earth, sweet herbs, and wood smoke mingled oddly. The worshipers were moving like dancers, their movements dreamy and slow.

  It was oddly effective—darkness, firelight, the path of light through the trees. Lena felt the hair on her arms prickle and stand up.

  Ted Moberly grabbed her shoulder.

  “Look. To the left of the emcee there, under the tree.”

  Lena saw children, three of them, sitting cross-legged. One of them pulled his hood off his head.

  “Where did they come from?” Lena said.

  “One of the adults slipped away a few minutes ago. Brought the kids back with … her, I think. Walks like a woman. You think any of the kids is Charlie?”

  Lena looked at the one with the hood pulled back. His hair was thick, dark, and curly. “Not that one. I don’t know about the other two. It’s hard to tell with them sitting.” Her voice went flat. “I think they’re too big to be Charlie.”

  “Wonder if there’s more of them. Look, see? She just slipped off again. She may be going for more kids. I’m going after her.”