At the mention of her niece's name, the woman winced. 'God damn it! How do I end up in these situations?'
'Let's go inside.'
'How do I know that badge is real? How do I know you're not
going to attack me once I let you inside?'
'Because I would have attacked you by now.' Decker sidestepped her, jogged up to the front door, and pushed it open. Walking in, he took two steps down, his feet sinking into deep-piled gray carpet, his eyes drawn to the glass wall before him.
The view was breathtaking - a stunning panorama of twinkling, multicolored lights. Below the switchboard sky were long stretches of onyx black that probably held the wooded copses seen only in the daytime. The room held modern furniture in vogue about fifteen, twenty years ago - sling-back leather sofas and chairs, chrome and glass tables. A stone wet bar sat against one wall; a stone fireplace stood on the other. Resting above the mantel was a tremendous, unframed canvas of some kind of leaping animal. It could have been a deer, a cougar, or even a Matisse-type dancer.
'Where is she?' Decker asked.
'I want to call a lawyer.'
'You could do that. But it might make things worse for you. Because if you call a lawyer, then I'll have to do things like... officially arresting someone. But sure, go ahead.'
The woman tapped her toe. 'I want to call my husband.'
'Sure, call him.' Decker looked at his watch. 'But I'm on a tight schedule. If I can't conclude the interview here, I'm going to have to haul Erin down to the stationhouse. The one where I work... in the Valley.' His eyes went back to the view. 'You can meet us there if you want.'
'At least let me call my sister.' A pause. 'That would complicate things.'
'You know your sister.'
'It's not my sister who's the problem, it's her husband. If he were any more of a fascist, he'd be a Nazi. And that's a pretty good trick because he's Jewish.' She rolled her eyes. 'Not that I'm anti-Semitic. He just happens to be a prick.'
'There's usually one in every family. I'd like to talk to Erin now.'
'I knew this was a bad idea, taking her in. She just looked so... scared.'
'I'm sure she is scared. That's why I'd like to talk to her.'
She kneaded her hands. 'I don't know...'
Talking more to herself than to Decker. He said, 'While you decide, I'll look around in the meantime.' He started down a long foyer that was covered with the same plush carpet. The pile was so soft, it was almost like wading in muck.
The woman came after him. 'You just can't. Goddamn! Justin, turn down that awful music!'
There was no discernible decrease in volume. To Decker, she shouted, 'Now, you stay right where you are. I will not let the police bully me or Erin or anyone. That poor girl has gone through enough.'
Decker walked back into the living room, away from the noise. 'So tell me about it.'
The woman's lips shut.
'Mrs Frammel, my coming here may have been the best thing for your entire family. Somebody - or bodies - has killed four people in two days. Given the numbers, I don't think he or they would hesitate at killing four more.'
She shuddered. 'That's a horrible thing to say.' She brought her hand to her throat. 'You're being deliberately cruel. Just like my brother-in-law.'
'I'm not being cruel, I'm trying to emphasize the gravity of the situation.'
The woman wrapped herself in her arms. 'She isn't in any of these rooms.'
Decker studied Mrs Frammel's face - guileless, worried, and concerned. 'Where is she?'
'Why should I trust you... what's your name again?'
'Lieutenant Peter Decker. It's on the front page of the paper. I'm quoted regarding the death of Dee Baldwin. Where is Erin, ma'am?'
The woman hesitated. 'We have a cave... down below. My husband... he wanted to be more... in touch with the
elements. He excavated this room from the wall of the mountain.' She made a face. 'It's his pride and joy. He did it all himself. But it isn't up to code.'
'I promise I won't report him to the building commission. How do I get down there?'
She told Decker to follow her. She led him into a wide, open caterer's kitchen, filled with stainless steel appliances, stainless countertops, and white, lacquered cabinetry. In the middle sat a leather and steel dining set, the table being round and balanced on a pedestal that looked more like a giant spring than something designed to support. The chairs had black leather seats and were also balanced on spring-looking bases. Perhaps if one bounced hard enough, one could catapult across the room.
'This way,' the woman told him.
'Thank you, Mrs Frammel.'
'Doreen.'
'Thank you, Doreen,' Decker repeated.
'I suppose I should answer "you're welcome", but I don't know if that would be answering truthfully.' She sneered. 'God, why does he play that music at ear-splitting level?'
'To annoy you.'
'Well, it's working.' She opened a drawer and took out a key. Then she brought him into the service porch. A Miele washing machine was tumbling wet, soapy clothes. Doreen stared at the rotary drum for a moment. 'Sometimes I think it's better than network TV.'
'It's certainly more dynamic'
Doreen managed a small grin. 'She's a real screwed-up kid. I'm the first to admit it. But she doesn't deserve to go to jail because she, like my sister, has lousy taste in boys.'
'Lousy taste isn't punishable by imprisonment. But aiding and abetting a criminal is.'
'She's stupid,' Doreen insisted. 'Cut her slack.'
'Why don't you let me talk to her first?'
The woman rubbed her eyes and unlocked a door. She flicked on a wall switch, and a beam of narrow yellow light revealed a
narrow staircase. 'Watch your step, watch your head. I hope you're not claustrophobic'
'No, I'm not.'
'Then you're one step above me. I hate this. Frankly, I think my husband's crazy.'
The steps going down were wooden and rickety and too small for his feet. Decker had to tiptoe on a few of them. He also had to stoop to descend the steps. By the time he was close to the bottom, he was almost entirely bent over. The passageway ended in another door. Heavy metal music escaped from the rocky walls. It was muted, so all Decker could hear was the thumping of the bass line.
Doreen knocked. 'Erin, honey, open up, it's me.'
No answer.
She knocked again. 'Erin?'
Nothing.
'Come on!' She pounded.
Suddenly, the music turned softer. The door opened. The kid's eyes did a quick assessment; she decided that slamming the door shut was her best bet. But Decker had anticipated her actions. Positioned well, he leaned forward, taking the brunt of the force on his shoulder - the one without the bullet scar. At the same time, he threw his weight onto the swinging slab of solid wood, and the door flew back open.
He went inside. He could stand up straight, but barely so. At certain points, the cave-room ceiling brushed against his hair, making it not more than six-five or -six.
Decker concluded that Mr Frammel must be a short man.
The niche was big enough - about two hundred square feet. The floor had been finished with cork tiles, but the walls had been blasted from the raw mountain, giving the room a primitive caveman-era look. Any wall that wasn't rock was glass. At one point, the room had been constructed to look as if the floor dropped out from under one's feet, giving one an off-balance feeling of floating or falling - disconcerting but original, he gave Mr Frammel that much.
The space held a bed, a TV, and a desk with a computer, modem, phone, and fax. There was a bookshelf that held more videos than novels, but there were some paperbacks, almost all of them in the true-crime genre. Lurid cases. Decker remembered some of them. He wondered if Mr Frammel had hidden whips and chains somewhere.
Erin had locked herself behind a door - presumably the bathroom.
Decker turned off the blaring stereo. 'Come on out, Erin. I'm here to help you.
'
'You're part of it. Go away!'
'Part of what?'
'His worldwide alliance - the New World Order.'
'I'm not part of anything.'
Erin was silent.
Decker thought a moment. 'All right. If you feel safer talking from behind the door, then that's okay with me. Just talk to me, okay?'
Several moments passed, then a full minute.
'Aunt Doreen?' The voice from behind the door was tiny.
'Yes, I'm here.'
'I'm sorry.'
'It's okay, darling. Come on out. He's...' She glanced at Decker, her expression sour. 'I think he's here to help.'
'You think?' Decker whispered.
She snarled back, 'I don't know who the hell you are.'
'Aunt Doreen?' she bleated.
'Yes, Erin. What? Come out, okay?'
The woman was growing impatient.
Decker whispered, 'Maybe you should call up your husband or your sister.'
'And leave you alone with her?'
Decker took a step forward until he was almost chest to chest with the woman. 'And you really think that you could protect her against me?'
She swallowed hard.
Decker stepped back. 'I'm on the right side. Go make some phone calls to the police if you don't believe me.'
The woman hesitated.
'Aunt Doreen?'
'What, Erin?'
'Do you think it's okay?'
A sigh. 'Yes, honey, I think it's okay. I think it's time we tell the authorities.'
Seconds passed... then the door opened.
32
The girl was a stick figure: one-dimensional arms and legs with almost no body. She had thin brown hair - long and straight and dull. Wide waiflike brown eyes were set over small lips. Her nose was red and dripping. She wiped it with a bony finger.
'She has a terrible cold,' Doreen said.
'Go upstairs, Mrs Frammel,' Decker told her. More force was in his voice. 'We'll be fine.'
Doreen looked at Erin. The young girl nodded.
'I'm leaving the doors open,' Doreen announced. 'Shout if you need anything.' Then she started the journey up the steps. Decker waited until he heard the footsteps recede. Then he sat on the edge of the bed. She was sitting on the opposite corner, legs tucked under her wasted body, head against propped pillows.
Decker pulled out his notepad and a small tape recorder. 'Do you mind?' She shook her head.
'I need you to talk, Erin. The recorder doesn't pick up head movements.'
'You can record it. I don't care.'
'Good.' Decker adjusted the volume, then set the machine in the middle of the bed. 'How long have you been using?' Erin's eyes jumped around, landing on the machine. Decker said, 'I'm not going to bust you. I'm just curious.' 'I dunno. Over a year.' She rubbed her nose, then got up and
closed the door. She plopped back down onto the bed, bouncing the tape recorder as she did so. 'That's why I stayed with Darrell so long. He supplied me.'
'What happened to the biker you took off with?'
'A real bummer.' She straightened her spine. 'I thought he was gonna be my meal ticket... but then he made me work for it.' Her mouth turned downward. 'Asshole.'
'What about Darrell?'
'He's an asshole, too. A sick puppy, but so are most guys. But he didn't make me work for my shit. All I had to do was give him what he liked, the way he liked it. Sex games - him and her.'
' "Her" is Ruby Ranger?'
She nodded.
'What kind of sex games?'
She shrugged.
'Did he take movies?'
'None that I saw.' She sniffed deeply. 'The two of them... they liked to pick up teenagers at a party... screw them... mess with their heads. That's what they really liked to do... mess with their heads.'
'How'd you meet him?'
She scratched her scalp with a dirty nail. 'The biker that I went off with ran with a pack. The leader gave me to Darrell for money. Weird. Like they sold me for a grand or something.'
'Sold you?'
'Yeah, but it turned out okay. I didn't have to turn tricks.'
'What did you have to do?'
'Just play the little games... get tied up and scream a lot... you know, act like I was scared.' She made a face, stuck out her tongue. 'Stupid, but it beat the hell out of turning tricks. I think I could have made the break - Darrell wouldn't have hunted me down - but I decided to stay. It was better than home.'
'Your home life was that bad?'
Her face turned hard. 'My parents are assholes. My mom's this perfect soccer mom who won't stand up to my dad, who's a super asshole. My sister's the princess. I'm the dumb one in the
family. Me, I could never do anything right. It was all about how stupid I was, how ugly I was, how I wouldn't ever be anything because I was stupid and ugly...' There were tears in her eyes. 'He never trusted me. He always went through my drawers. At first, he didn't find anything, because I didn't do anything. Later on, he found my stash. He locked me up in a place for users. God, I was only smoking pot, and he acted like I was this strung-out H addict. So he sent me away to the school for fuckups. I ran away. After that, he said he was sending me to reform school or juvenile hall or something even more shitty than the fuckup school. I told him over my dead body. And then I slugged him. Then he slugged me back. I fell and hit my head. The asshole almost put me in the hospital.'
'Why didn't you report him?'
Tears fell from her eyes. 'He has connections. The easiest thing to do was to take off. My mother was really mad that my father hit me. Of course, she wasn't mad enough to throw him out. Instead, she suggested we all go away for a little time out. So we went to Woodstock. That's where I met Brock.'
'The biker.'
She nodded, then slumped back down in the pillows.
Decker tried to be objective, but it was hard. All these wounded lives.
She went on. 'Darrell was a perv, but at least he didn't hurt me. And he gave me junk. He could afford it. He was always flush.'
'The Baldwins paid him well?'
She shrugged.
'What did he tell you about them?'
'Not much. I didn't ask questions about things that weren't my business.'
'What was your business?'
'Mostly I helped Darrell at PEL At first, I thought he was a lunatic, but I didn't care 'cause he was giving me money. Then after a while... I don't know... I got into it. Darrell started making sense. Especially the stuff about the Jews controlling
everything. Because when you got a father like mine - the most controlling asshole in the world - it's easy to believe that. That's what Darrell and I really had in common. We both hated our fathers!'
Somehow it always boiled down to bad parenting. Which made Decker feel queasy. Sure, there were lots of other explanations for Jacob's rebellious behavior - the loss of his father at a young age, the molestation, the remarriage of his mother, a new baby, and his innate temperament. But did Decker do all he could have done to get the boy through it? All those nights working instead of taking care of business at home.
Erin continued. 'After a while, I got into it... the whole PEI philosophy. He told me he got most of the ideas from some genius guy named Ricky Moke. I'm not the sharpest knife in the block, but it didn't take long for me to figure out who Moke was. But I went along with it anyway. That was Darrell's thing -different identities. He had a million of them. Most of them came out in his sex games.'
'When did Darrell use the name Darrell Holt, and when did he use Ricky Moke?'
'Ricky Moke was his baaaad boy.' She leaned forward and grinned knowingly. It made her look years older and decades harder. 'He actually became this Ricky guy with separate identity pictures, a Social Security card, a graduation diploma. God, that was real impressive to me. I told him to get me one of those. It's like Darrell cut himself in two. As Darrell, he was the political activist. Sometimes it was real weird because Darrell would talk about Ric
ky like Ricky was another person. A real nother person. Like they were really two people—'
'I get it.'
'And he'd say things like... like although he admired Ricky, he didn't like him because Ricky was doing illegal stuff like hacking and bombing and being a sexual pervert. Tell you the truth, I liked Ricky better than Darrell. He was more exciting. Ricky's wanted by the FBI, you know.'
Faye Kellerman - Decker 13 - The Forgotten Page 34
