Under the Beetle's Cellar

by Mary Willis Walker

  Walter stopped because the kids were laughing. It was a cheap shot. After forty-eight days with this age group, he knew how popular bathroom jokes were.

  Hector said through his laughter, “That’s great. I thought Lopez had something to do with it.”

  “Didn’t the Tongs know it was pee?” Heather asked. “You can smell it.”

  “Well, they noticed that it was different from normal rain and that’s one of the things that scared them. But it smelled more like wine because that was what they’d been drinking.” Walter knew he wasn’t making any sense. He was barely able to concentrate now, thinking about the phone call coming up.

  “My mom drinks wine,” Heather said, “and even when she says she hasn’t been, I know she has because I can smell it. Was it red or white wine?”

  “It was white wine,” Walter told her. “Tongs don’t use alcohol at all, so they really aren’t familiar with its smell the way you are, Heather.”

  Walter looked at his watch. He couldn’t concentrate. He was just too preoccupied to go on. His head was churning with anxieties. If only he knew what was happening aboveground. Martin spoke of the negotiators as if they were just a part of everyday life. So maybe there had been ongoing conversation during these endless days. His only contact with the negotiators, the only reason he knew for sure they were out there, had been the half-minute conversation the second day. If you could call what they’d had a conversation. Walter had read, at gunpoint, a statement Mordecai handed him: “ ‘My name is Walter Demming. The eleven children are with me. We are all safe and being taken care of. Samuel Mordecai is in charge here. He has an important message for the world.’ ”

  A voice had said, “Mr. Demming, I’m Andrew Stein of the Federal Bureau of Investigation. We are doing everything we can to secure your release. The safety of you and the children is our primary concern. What can we—” At that point Samuel Mordecai had taken over the phone and Walter had been dragged back to the barn through a wooden corridor. Then they pulled the wooden slab aside and shoved him back down into the buried bus. That was the only time he’d been aboveground in forty-eight days. The only time he’d heard a voice from the outside world.

  Surely by now the FBI knew that Mordecai was no negotiator. The man had his own agenda and it didn’t include letting them go. Walter had vague recollections of news items about hostage situations and the Waco standoff. There was something in Utah and something in California, he thought, but he couldn’t remember the details. So what were the negotiators thinking of?

  Walter had been awake all night thinking about the negotiators, wondering how smart they were, wondering if what he was going to try was worth the risk. He was going to try to tell them they were all underground, in the barn. He was going to try to tell them that they should attack and he would keep the kids down and safe for as long as it took. But it would work only if the people on the receiving end of his message were creative in trying to figure it out, only if they went to the trouble of talking to the important people in his life—Jake and Theodora. Certainly they would locate Jake. But Theodora? He just didn’t know.

  “Mr. Demming, are you all right?” Kim asked. “I guess that’s all for today, huh?”

  “Yes.” He looked up at the kids. “I’m sort of preoccupied, thinking about the phone call. I could use a little quiet time to get myself ready. I want to give your messages just right.”

  “Mr. Demming,” Conrad said, “I want to change my message. Can I do some more?”

  “No. Remember, we timed it at one minute. You can change what you’ve got if it’s the same length.”

  “Oh, I guess not then. I was just thinking. When we were talking about food, I got to thinking about the fried liver my mom—”

  “Liver!” Sandra grimaced. “Barf.”

  “Mr. Demming,” Lucy said, “what happens if we get rescued before you finish the story?”

  Walter held up two fingers as though he were taking the Boy Scout oath. “I promise you this, Lucy goosey, if we get rescued before I finish, I’ll get you all together and do it later. Maybe when Hector’s mom has us over for tamales.”

  Ten minutes later, as Walter was reading over the twelve messages for the hundredth time, the wooden cover scraped back and they all looked toward the pit. “It’s time!” Martin’s head appeared upside down next to the bulb at the bus door. “Come on, Bus Driver. I’ll give you a hand up.”

  “Okay.” Walter stood up. He folded his paper and tucked it into his shirt pocket. He glanced toward the empty fourth seat where he’d stuffed the knife inside a rip and deep under the padding for safekeeping. “I won’t be long,” he said, looking around at the kids.

  Hector came up close and gave him a little punch in the chest. “Good luck, man.” He stood on his tiptoes and whispered into Walter’s ear, “This is going to work for us, I know it. The FBI’s real smart. I seen it in that movie The Silence of the Lambs. They’ll figure it out.”

  Walter tried to smile. What he was planning to do seemed so ridiculous. He was taking a big risk for something that seemed impossibly unrealistic, as ephemeral as moonbeams.

  As he walked up the aisle to the door, each of the kids except Philip reached out to touch him. Walter stopped and took each hand in turn, engulfing each smaller hand in both of his and squeezing. It was as if he were receiving from each of them a surge of power and confidence. By the time he got to the door, he felt all things were possible.

  CHAPTER

  ELEVEN

  “Each time a new cultic prophet bursts to public attention, we dismiss him as a violent eccentric making a guest appearance from the lunatic fringe. But these religious wild men have a long and continuous history in the United States; they speak not to some momentary discontent or aberration, but to persistent American pain and alienation that expresses itself in a yearning for a holy community under the protection of an old-fashioned patriarch.”

  MOLLY CATES, “TEXAS CULT CULTURE,”

  LONE STAR MONTHLY, DECEMBER 1993

  He called just after midnight. “How’s my dog?”

  Molly had been asleep for less than an hour. She turned over and looked down at the floor where the dog lay in the pale spill from the nightlight—a huge dark shape stretched out next to her bed. Earlier, she’d closed the door to keep him out of the bedroom, but he’d kept her awake whining and scratching on the door, so eventually she’d relented and let him in.

  “At least he doesn’t smell bad,” she said, her voice hoarse with sleep. She reached down to pat his head. “I hope he doesn’t have fleas.”

  “Not Copper,” Grady said.

  “We went out to the country. He made a friend—a senile golden retriever—but he nearly killed her first.”

  “Ah,” he said. “You’re bonding with him. I can tell.”

  She sat up and leaned against the headboard. “You found something.”

  “You sound sleepy. What are you wearing?”

  “Oh, so this is one of those calls.”

  “Uh-huh. What have you got on?”

  “Chanel No. 5 and the radio.” She laughed.

  “I think I’ll come over and see my dog.”

  “Come. But first tell me what you’ve found.”

  “Lots of dust, pill bugs, a few spiders—and you know how I feel about spiders—arggh!”

  “Come on, Grady. Don’t toy with me.”

  “Molly, you really live right.”

  Her heartbeat quickened.

  “The officer who made that report about the baby on August 3, 1962, was Patrolman Oscar Mendez. I checked the roster. Mendez retired in ’78 and died in ’91.”

  So it was a dead end. Molly felt a pang of disappointment. “That’s living right?” she asked.

  “Just wait,” Grady said. “The jogger who found the baby in the cooler and called the police was one Jerry Brinker, who lived with his sister in Westlake Hills.”

  “Lived?”

  “Yeah. I tracked the sister down. Jerry died last y
ear. Heart attack while jogging on the hike-and-bike trail.”

  “Oh, shit.”

  “Now don’t forget you are talking to one of the most indefatigable investigators in the history of the Austin PD. With a computer and a telephone there is very little I can’t do. You will recall there was a witness who saw Jerry find the baby. His name is Hank Hanley.”

  “Is?”

  “Yes, ma’am. A twenty-year-old homeless man at the time, living along Waller Creek. And guess what?”

  “What?”

  “Hank’s now a fifty-three-year-old homeless man living along Waller Creek and sometimes, in really inclement weather, at the Salvation Army. He often takes his meals there.”

  “Does he have a sheet?”

  “Sure. The usual class C misdemeanors—seventeen arrests for public intoxication and nine for trespass. Not too bad for a wino with such a long career. But he also has three arrests for peeping.”

  “How did you track him down?”

  “A combination of technology and native cop cunning.”

  “Oh, Grady, I do love you.”

  “Because I’m a crack investigator?”

  “That. And because you fix toilets.”

  “See, I’m useful around the house.”

  “You certainly are.”

  “You could have me on call twenty-four hours a day.”

  “Like a live-in janitor?”

  “Janitor, handyman, cop, lover, masseur—you can have it all.”

  “Tempting. We’ll talk about it sometime.”

  “Okay. Do you want to take over on Hank Hanley, Molly? Or shall I go roust him now, rough him up a little?”

  She switched on the lamp so she could think better. “He’ll know you’re a cop and he might clam up. This is delicate. I think I’ll take it. First thing in the morning. God, I hope he hasn’t totally pickled his brains. Come over and tell me how you worked these miracles. Bring dog food, so you can feed the beast before you go back to Jezreel in the morning.”

  “I’m on my way.”

  She woke to the tickle of fingertips brushing down her spine, caressing one vertebra at a time, in circles so light it felt like butterfly wings. Then the butterflies spread out, fluttering along her ribs, under her arms, in circles around her breasts, and down her stomach, making her skin quiver in their path.

  “Mmmm,” she said. “Don’t stop.”

  A voice whispered in her ear, “I could wake you up every morning. How about an alarm clock that wakes you like this?” Lips touched the rim of her ear and the nape of her neck.

  “Mmmm. Yes. That would be good. But what else would it do? Show me the full range.”

  “Let’s see, there would be two hands coming out, like this.” He cupped her breasts. “Or maybe three hands.” He moved his foot up her leg, running the toes slowly from her ankle up her inner thigh. “Or four.” He pressed himself against her back.

  Molly laughed. “No dreading the alarm going off.”

  “Shhhh. You’ll wake him,” he whispered into her ear.

  She glanced over the edge of the bed at the dark shape on the floor.

  She opened her mouth to complain, to tell him that it was absurd to have to keep quiet for a dog, that he should throw the beast out, but Grady stopped all complaint with his mouth.

  Afterward she asked, “Any news from Jezreel?”

  “Nothing. Two more days left on Mordecai’s schedule. By the way, do you know the significance of Jezreel in the Bible?”

  “You mean the great Valley of Jezreel where the Battle of Armageddon is going to take place, according to the Book of Revelation? Two hundred million mounted troops? Ancient serpents and giant locusts that sting like scorpions? A third of mankind killed? Blood rising as high as the horses’ bridles?”

  “Molly, you’ve been reading the Bible.”

  “Pretty horrific stuff, Revelation. The end of the world, directed by Oliver Stone. I suppose Mordecai picked Jezreel, Texas, to settle down in because he expects some big battle to be fought there.”

  “I’m sorely afraid there will be a battle,” Grady said grimly as he departed.

  Molly buried her face in the pillow.

  She tried to go back to sleep; it was only five-thirty, but Grady had fed the dog and left him outside, and now the wretch was barking. She got up to let him in, thinking about Hank Hanley, who, she was willing to bet, didn’t often have people thinking about him.

  Molly had never been inside the new Salvation Army shelter. It was a huge, stark, red-brick fortress with pinched windows. “Dedicated in 1987,” said the plaque at the door, “to the glory of God and service to humanity.” Molly recalled that it had taken ten years of fierce wrangling over the location before God and humanity could be served on this run-down block at Eighth and Neches. Everyone in this laid-back and liberal town firmly believed in the cause the Sally served, but no one wanted to have it as a neighbor.

  At the reception desk, a young man was watching a portable television. On the screen was the all too familiar profile of the Hearth Jezreelite compound in the background and a local reporter in the foreground.

  To get the young man’s attention, she had to raise her voice. When he turned reluctantly from the screen, Molly asked, “Anything new happening out there?”

  “No, ma’am.” He flicked the sound off. “You know what I think we ought to do?”

  Molly had heard countless ideas on the subject in the past forty-eight days. Everyone had an opinion. She scanned the young man’s buzz haircut and earnest jaw and prepared herself for another SWAT fantasy. “What?”

  “I think we ought to send in a Trojan horse.” He picked up a paperback book and showed it to her. The Iliad.

  “With a SWAT team hiding inside?”

  “No. Angels. Well, really it would be the FBI, or maybe Delta Force, or Israeli commandos, but they’d be dressed up like angels so this Mordecai guy would think they’d come to fight Armageddon on his side. But under their white robes they’d have grenades and Uzis and all. They’d rescue the kids quick and put ’em inside the horse, which would be armored like a tank, and then they’d kill all those crazies and take the kids home to their mamas.”

  “I like it,” Molly said, thinking it made as much sense as anything the cops had come up with. “Is Hank Hanley on your list for last night?”

  He didn’t even glance at the list posted on the wall next to him. “No, ma’am. But he usually comes in for breakfast. If you want to wait, he’ll probably be along because we’re just starting to serve.”

  “Do you know where he usually sleeps?”

  “No. Hank likes to sleep raw—you know, out in the elements—rather than here. He says guys in the dorm are always trying to get into his pants.” He guffawed.

  “Well, maybe they are,” she said.

  “Wait until you see old Hank,” he told her. “Set yourself down over there and I’ll call you when I spot him.”

  Molly chose a metal folding chair near the desk and watched the people coming in. Mostly men, they arrived in clusters of three or four. The majority appeared to be what you’d expect at the Sally—the truly down-and-out—but a surprising number looked like the middle class with a few wrinkles in their pants.

  Three women came in carrying shopping bags, arguing in low voices. Molly watched them with fascination. She had been wanting to do an article on homeless women ever since she discovered how many women, herself included, harbored bag-lady nightmares. It seemed especially true of women who were going through a divorce or major life change. The three crones standing in the door arguing could have played the witches in Macbeth. She wanted to hear their life histories, see where they slept, follow them on their daily routines, photograph them. She wanted to know what they carried around in their bags.

  The young man at the desk called to her, “Ma’am, here he comes.”

  He walked in alone—a cadaverously thin man, stooped, with a grizzled gray-and-ginger beard. Her heart sank. This was going to be a
colossal waste of time. He was the walking dead, a poster boy for the horrors that alcohol can inflict on the human body. Hank Hanley looked ninety-three, not fifty-three. His sun- and dirt-stained skin was so dry and wrinkled it looked mummified. He wore Levi’s that would have slid off his hips if two of the belt loops hadn’t been tied together with a shoelace. His stained white gimme hat said “Hard Rock Cafe—London.”

  Molly rose. “Mr. Hanley?”

  He reached up to take off his hat, but he missed it. On the second try he snagged the bill and lifted it off. Long ago someone had instilled in him some manners, and they were still there. “Ma’am?”

  “I’m Molly Cates, Mr. Hanley. Could we sit down and talk for a minute?”

  His sunken eyes darted around in confusion and his jaw quivered. “Do I know you, ma’am?”

  “No. But I sure would appreciate it if you’d give me a few minutes of your time.”

  “I ain’t done nothing wrong,” he insisted.

  “Oh, no. I just want to talk.”

  His darty eyes came to rest on her. “Not a cop.”

  Molly chuckled. “Definitely not a cop. A writer.”

  Hank raised a shaky hand to his beard. “A writer.”

  “Yes. Maybe I could take you out to breakfast,” she suggested. “Is there somewhere around here you like better than this?”

  He began to scratch furiously at his beard. “I like the House of Pancakes right well, but I … can’t—”

  “I’d like to treat you. My truck’s up the street. We’ll drive.”

  “Oh, yes, ma’am.”

  “Molly,” she said. “Call me Molly and I’ll call you Hank.”

  In the morning heat they walked to the truck and talked about the weather. It turned out that the weather was Hank’s best subject, something he was very much in touch with. Hottest spring in eleven years, he told her. Humid, more rainfall than average. More mosquitoes and fire ants than anyone could remember. Fleas something fierce.