Faye Kellerman_Decker & Lazarus 11

by Jupiter's Bones

  Jacob shut the door and walked away. Decker watched him go, feeling inadequate and unsatisfied. A moment later, the teen was joined by four other boys who were obviously glad to see him. Decker wasn’t sure but he thought he detected a sudden swagger in his son’s walk. Jacob was a real charmer.

  Jails were full of them.

  12

  They had amassed for the confrontation in the main hall. As the sun stood upright in its pathway, its rays poured through the ceiling’s windows, bleaching the faces of the spotlighted. The combination of the afternoon heat, the compressed bodies and the greenhouse factor had turned the area steamy, and it smelled as ripe as a gym. In the harsh glare, Pluto’s face appeared neon orange as sweat dripped down his face and onto his shoulders. Perspiration had also darkened the armpits of his blue robe. The two detectives and four officers were managing to keep the crowd from turning unruly, but they were badly outnumbered. Who knew how long order would last?

  Seeing this as he stepped inside, Decker radioed for all units to be on alert in case backup was needed. The situation was tense, but not as grueling as dealing with his family. Hell, he didn’t have to see these yahoos every night for dinner.

  When Pluto spotted Decker, the guru turned his wrath on the higher authority. He pointed an angry index finger at the lieutenant, shaking it as if sprinkling baptismal waters. “I hold you responsible for the kidnapping!”

  Over one hundred angry adult faces turned toward him, each adding a hostile grunt or remark of his or her own.

  Pluto orated, “We expect the police to conduct an all-out manhunt until our Sister Andromeda is returned to us. We demand this. We will not put up with anything less.”

  Again, the crowd shot back some righteous amens.

  Decker said nothing, waiting for the noise to die down. A moment passed, then two, then a full minute, Pluto waiting for him to say something. Lacking sagacious words, Decker smoothed his mustache. “Where’s the bathroom?”

  Oliver almost broke up, but Marge elbowed him just in time.

  Pluto had turned pumpkin from outrage. “What?”

  “I have to use the facilities,” Decker said. “Happens to the best of us. Afterward, I’m here to listen—”

  “To listen!” Pluto sneered. “We don’t want your therapy! We want action!”

  A chorus of support from the parishioners.

  “One of our members was stolen from us!” he yelled. “Find her!”

  Again, the masses erupted.

  “We’re here to serve,” Decker yelled over the noise. “But first things first. Someone direct me to the john, please?”

  Silence. Then a male voice answered, “Third door on the left.”

  Decker scanned the room in the direction of the voice. Bearded and thin—Guru Bob with a cryptic smile. Decker nodded. Then he told Pluto to meet him in the temple.

  Once inside, Decker locked the door. The place was closet-sized and barely accommodated his size. He turned the water on full blast and washed his hands and face while trying to formulate a plan. He didn’t want a one-on-one with Pluto, either in front of an audience or alone. He needed input from other less volatile members. He decided to request a meeting of all the privileged attendants. He had wanted to meet Nova, and now seemed as good a time as any.

  Coming out of the bathroom, he saw that people were dispersing slowly. Apparently, a breakup announcement had been made. He couldn’t find Marge, but Oliver was deep in conversation with some members, taking notes and acting official.

  Decker searched the room for other blue robes, hoping to find Nova, but he could only make out Bob in the crowd. He elbowed his way through the swarm until he was within talking distance of the goateed man.

  The attendant acknowledged him with a curt nod. He said, “Pluto’s waiting for you.” Bob glanced at Oliver, in conversation with a blond, stocky man. “Just you, not him. He was firm about that.”

  Decker said, “Why don’t you come join us? You and Venus and Nova.” He hesitated. “Where is Nova?”

  His sentence was interrupted by a white-robed, thirty-something man who had turned his bullish face toward Decker. Standing nose to nose, the man shouted, “This is outrageous! Are you cops going to do anything? Or are you going to sit on your ass and fart onions!”

  Decker backed away, trying to regain personal space. “You got some bedside manner, guy!”

  Immediately, Bob stepped in. “Something will be done, Brother Ansel. One way or another—”

  “I hope so!” Brother Ansel broke in. “We cannot let this crime pass unchallenged—”

  “Of course not—”

  “An invasion of our privacy! Satan took advantage of our tragedy! Struck in our moment of sorrow!”

  “Everything will be dealt with. Now go back to your room. Meditation is in five minutes—”

  “This is hardly the time—”

  “On the contrary, Brother Ansel, it’s the perfect time,” Bob answered. “Spiritual growth happens during life’s challenges. Please return to your room now.” A chastising look. “You don’t want to risk a fine, do you?”

  The pugnacious Ansel growled, but eventually left. Not before throwing Decker a sneer. When he was gone, Decker asked, “Who’s the Satan?”

  Bob said, “Pluto’s expecting you at any moment. If he gets angry again, who knows what he’ll say to the crowd.”

  “Come with me.”

  “That wouldn’t be wise.”

  Decker paused. “I thought you said that you and Pluto are of equal rank.”

  Bob reddened in anger. “We are. But I have other business to take care of. We all have jobs to do.”

  Meaning he didn’t want to cross Pluto? Decker said, “Of course. Come if you can.”

  Bob was clearly in a quandary. “I’ll be there, but it’ll take time. Start without me.”

  “Great. Bring Nova along if you find him.”

  “Uh huh.” Bob became distracted, his eyes resting on a girl of about twenty. Her eyes were mildly green, and her brown hair was tied back in a bun. He nodded and she nodded back, passing an unwritten note of sexuality. She looked familiar.

  Then Decker remembered. It was Terra. The girl in the van who had led them through the gate—and past the dogs—yesterday morning.

  Bob said, “I’ll see you later.”

  Decker asked, “By the way, where is Nova?”

  Bob tensed. “You’re getting downright pesky.”

  Decker shrugged. “Sorry about the persistence. It’s my job. Still, I don’t want to alienate you. You’ve been helpful.”

  “Yeah, well, that can change quickly.”

  “I saw Europa yesterday. She offered me some interesting insights. Maybe we can talk about her some time.”

  “Then again, maybe not.” Bob’s face was flat. “Goodbye.”

  Decker said, “I’ll see you in a bit.” He walked toward the temple. After taking a dozen steps, he stopped, then turned and looked over his shoulder. Bob had disappeared, no doubt going off to chase a much more tangible celestial body.

  The rooms were clones of one another, and Sister Andromeda’s was no exception. Hers was just as Decker had described the others. A cot, a coarse wool blanket and a makeshift shelf on which sat a cup, a spoon and several books on spirituality and lay physics.

  As a matter of fact, the bookshelf dared to have a novel. Nothing big…a romance title from a couple of years back. Still…

  Marge tapped her pencil on her pad.

  There was something eerie about the cubicle. All of the girl’s earthly possessions remained—from the books to the suitcase underneath the cot. It certainly didn’t seem as if she was planning on going somewhere. Everything was in place. Only thing missing was the occupant.

  Hearing scuffled footsteps, Marge turned around. A young woman barely out of her teens stood at the doorway. Her complexion was smooth and pale, her hair medium brown and tied up. Pretty in a waifish way. Full lips and pronounced cheekbones. Her hands and fingers were
long and smooth as if sculpted from marble. She wore a white robe. On her feet were white slippers.

  “She was taken, you know,” the woman stated in a soft voice.

  Marge said, “Tell me about it.”

  “It was him. The one we call Satan!”

  “Does he have a more…conventional name?”

  Her delicate fingers gathered in a fold of her snowy gown. “Reuben Asnikov. Her parents hired him. They paid him lots of money. Andromeda was terrified of being snatched by him. He has a sordid reputation.”

  “In what way?”

  “In his methods of brainwashing.”

  Or deprogramming, depending on your perspective, Marge thought. “Tell me about it.”

  “Just that he will stop at nothing.”

  “Can you be more specific?”

  “Is there a way to categorize the evilness of the devil?” A tear fell down her cheek. “None of us are incarcerated here. We can leave if we want. Yet we stay because here we can live under the glow and guidance of Father Jupiter.”

  She started to cry. Marge waited her out. It took about a minute. When the young woman finally calmed down, Marge said, “I didn’t catch your name.”

  “Terra.” She wiped her eyes with the back of her silky hand. “It’s Terra.”

  “And you were friends with Andromeda?”

  “We are both teachers of the children. The sweet, sweet children. The future of the Order.” A new batch of tears escaped. “It is intolerable to think that they will not grow up with the holy hand of our venerated Father Jupiter.”

  “Where are the children now?” Marge asked Terra.

  “Come.” Terra straightened her spine and took Marge’s hand. “I’ll take you.”

  Leading her down a hallway, Terra tiptoed until they reached a kind of cul-de-sac of three doors. Small, muffled cries bled from one of the rooms. Terra smiled. “The nursery.”

  “Mind if I take a look?”

  Terra opened the door just a crack, enough for Marge to see but not wide enough to be noticed.

  Three women in white gowns were tending to a dozen small children—babies and toddlers. Each was doing a job. One was rocking a two-year-old, singing lullabies to a Botticellian face. Two infants were sleeping in cribs. One woman was on the floor building with Legos with a group of toddlers. Another was setting up food on a picnic table for what appeared to be an afternoon snack.

  “Would you like to go in?” Terra told Marge.

  “No, that’s fine.” Marge faced her. “Don’t want to disturb anyone.”

  Terra closed the door and opened another. “This is one of our two primary classrooms for grade school.” She walked inside the room. Immediately, a group of children stood at attention, all of them dressed in white cotton pants, a white long-sleeved T-shirt and white socks and sneakers.

  The clothes were bright white—dead white. Either these kids didn’t do much dirty work or the compound owned shares in Clorox.

  In white and standing erect—like little angels. Around thirty of them of varying ages, but they all seemed to be under twelve. A quick ethnic breakdown put around sixty percent of them as Caucasian, about thirty percent Asian, while the remaining ten percent were of mixed race.

  Tender, small faces with bright eyes too big for their faces, smooth cheeks unravaged by hormones and red but unchapped lips that, when parted, produced the crooked smiles of half-erupted teeth. They stood in a state-of-the-art classroom replete with writing desks each holding a PC computer, a monitor and a printer. A marker board sat on the front wall, various equations scrawled across the white surface in red ink. The remaining three walls were made up of bookshelves. All the texts seemed to deal with the physical sciences or the spiritual. Not a novel in sight. Like the other rooms in the compound, there were no windows—only skylights.

  No windows.

  Making access into the compound—except through the exterior doors—just about impossible. With all the goings-on yesterday—the police, the techs, the people from the coroner’s office—Asnikov would have had a rare opportunity to strike.

  Terra stood at the front of the classroom. Her manner was grave. “Good morning, our future generation.”

  In unison, they answered, “Good morning, our Sister Terra.”

  “You may sit.”

  They sat.

  “I will be with you in a moment. You are to use this interlude to say your prayers, asking once again for the safe journey for our Father Jupiter into the next universe. We all hope to join him soon.”

  The last sentence drew hackles from Marge’s neck.

  Terra said, “Our dear son Gamma, will you lead the chant?”

  A ten-year-old Asian boy stood. Within moments, the class broke into a mantra—hushed drone as whispery as the wind. Terra took Marge out of the classroom. As soon as they were alone, Marge asked Terra about the meaning of joining Father Jupiter.

  The young woman gave Marge a startled look. “It’s a formality, Detective. They need to feel part of the grief process. Yet we insist that they know there is a better future.” She paused. “Surely, you don’t think we have something more…more permanent in mind.”

  “There have been precedents.”

  “Father Jupiter was never one to force anything upon anyone. I assure you that those in charge feel the same way.”

  After interacting with Pluto, Marge wasn’t sure at all. “I noticed those kids were preteens.”

  Another tear slipped down Terra’s cheek. “The older ones were Andromeda’s charges.” Again, the young woman took Marge’s hand. She shook it with urgency. “You must find her soon. For the children’s sake. She relates so well to them…to the teenagers.”

  Slowly, Marge extracted her hand from Terra’s. “How many kids were in her charge?”

  “Eight. They’re simply lost without her.”

  “Who’s taking her place in the meantime?”

  “I am,” answered a deep, male voice. He was tall, thin and bearded. He extended his hand to Marge. “Guru Bob. And you are…?”

  “Detective Dunn.”

  “Ah. That’s right. You were here yesterday.”

  “Yes, I was. I didn’t expect to be called back so soon.”

  “We didn’t expect it either. What are you doing here? I mean here specifically…in front of the classrooms.”

  “Sister Terra was just showing me around.”

  “I’ll bet she was.” He took in Terra with fiery eyes. Marge came to her rescue. “I was looking over Andromeda’s room and Terra was kind enough to take an interest in her welfare. She said that Andromeda was a teacher. One thing led to another.”

  But Bob’s eyes never left Terra’s. He said, “I’ll finish up. You have children to take care of.”

  “Yes, Brother Bob.” Terra was petrified. “Right away.”

  The older man softened his tone. “Don’t worry. The transgression will not go beyond me. I know you meant well. How about if we meet in an hour…to discuss the children’s lessons?”

  Terra licked her full lips, her big eyes growing even wider. “Of course.” She managed a slight smile. “Of course.”

  Marge waited for more, but no one spoke. Something more than lessons was going on between them.

  “That’s all,” Bob said in a casual tone. “You may go.”

  Again, Terra gave him a smile—a bigger one. She pivoted and returned to the safety of her classroom.

  Bob had a gleam in his eye. “You have nothing better to do than to harass a young woman?”

  Talk about harassment. Marge said, “What transgression did Terra do? Show some independent thinking?”

  “Independent thinking is not a transgression. Any opinion is welcome as long as it’s between family members. But showing you around without proper clearance is not acceptable. It’s how we keep order.”

  “Sort of like the army.”

  “Paramilitary. If you don’t like it, you can leave.” His eyes honed in on hers. “Pluto’s not spouting hype
rbole. Andromeda was kidnapped. She’s over eighteen. Her parents have no right to keep her against her will.”

  “The law agrees with you.”

  “Yeah, well, that’s not enough right now. The sooner you resolve this crisis, the better. If you don’t do it with quasar speed, the trust between my people and yours is going to deteriorate exponentially.”

  “Any suggestions?” Marge said.

  “Yeah. Lean on Asnikov. Haul his ass into jail. Torture him until he confesses.”

  “We’ve got a thing called due process in this country.”

  Bob sneered, “Asnikov doesn’t care about due process. Why should I?”

  13

  “What do you know about cults?”

  Webster thought about the question. “I’m no expert—”

  “Then it’s good you’re with me,” Asnikov broke in. “You might as well learn from the best.”

  The intercom beeped, a disembodied female voice saying, “Jay on line two.”

  “I’ll take it in the inner office.” Asnikov regarded Webster from across his desk. The cops had sent him Surfer Dude—blond and well built. He stood about six even…boyish face though he was probably about thirty-five. Mr. Southern Boy, sitting in his blue serge suit with a well, shut-my-mouth grin. Sneaky demeanor. He bore watching.

  “The call’s important.” Asnikov stood. “Help yourself to another cup of coffee, Detective, I’ll be right back.” He paused. “You poke around, you’re asking for a lawsuit. I’ve got cameras everywhere.”

  Webster pointed to an overhead, geometric stained-glass ceiling fixture, and then to an air-conditioning grate.

  Asnikov said, “Try to find all of them. It’ll keep you busy until I’m done.”

  As soon as the deprogrammer left, Webster sat back in his chair, and tried to maintain a relaxed pose because the cameras were recording him. He was sweating internally if not through his shirt. Reuben Asnikov was a steel vault without a millimeter of give.

  Webster liked how the office had been done up—arts and crafts style. The ceiling was low and made from cherrywood planks set in a running board pattern. The illumination came from recessed, ceiling canisters. The overhead fixture, which was rectangular and ran the length of the ceiling, was assembled from small, opaque squares of yellow, red and blue glass; it probably held a half-dozen cameras. Webster looked upward and waved.