Faye Kellerman_Decker & Lazarus 11

by Jupiter's Bones

  “Oh, go ahead!”

  Herbert was annoyed. Probably, he was annoyed whenever he didn’t have a drink in his hand.

  Decker asked, “Have you written to her since she’s taken up residence in the Order of the Rings of God?”

  “I haven’t. Ceese hasn’t. The lawyer has. She kept asking for more money…from her trust fund. Ceese tell you about the trust fund?”

  “The one set up by your father-in-law—”

  “He was trying to avoid inheritance tax for the grandchildren. Well-meaning idea, but it backfired. Left behind a lot of lazy grandchildren.”

  “Here you go,” Ceese said, handing him his gin and tonic. “Are you speaking ill of the dead?”

  “Just expounding on the evils of inherited money.” He sipped his drink. “Me? I worked for every penny I ever owned. If Mo had done the same, she wouldn’t have been in the straits she’s in now. Not that I’m unsympathetic to the plight of the mentally ill. Didn’t we attend that dinner for Orlando Hospital?”

  “That we did—”

  “Some people have problems…big problems. But you have to knuckle down and work. Maureen? She never knew the meaning of work.”

  Decker asked, “So you never tried to contact her at the Order regarding her daughter, Lyra?”

  “No,” Herbert answered. “Never.”

  Decker was suddenly tired. “The Order said you’ve been writing threatening letters—”

  “What?” Herbert took another sip, then a gulp. “That’s an outrage! Untrue! That Jupiter fellow has it all mixed up.”

  “Herbert, didn’t you read the papers a few days ago? That Jupiter fellow died—”

  “No!”

  “Honest to goodness—”

  “I don’t believe it! How old was he?”

  “In his early seventies—”

  “A young man—”

  Decker broke in. “Sir, what did Jupiter have all mixed up in regards to threatening letters?”

  Herbert thought a moment. “We never wrote any letters. The estate lawyer—what’s his name, Ceese?”

  “Anthony Ballard.”

  “That’s right. Anthony Ballard. He wrote to the Order. They kept trying to get hold of Maureen’s money, threatening the trustees. Which didn’t hold water because my father-in-law was smart enough to put spendthrift clauses into his grandchildren’s trusts. Ballard got mad and wrote them up a cease and desist letter. It shut ’em up. The cult couldn’t touch the trust money, but it still managed to raid Maureen’s bank account. Which wasn’t insignificant.”

  “About how much in her account?”

  “Twenty, thirty grand.”

  “So Maureen’s flat broke now?”

  “No, she still has her fund. She just can’t get her hands on the money unless she proves herself to be competent mentally. Which so far hasn’t been the case.”

  “If Maureen would suddenly die, who’d get the money?”

  “It should revert back to her siblings.” Herbert pointed a finger. “But now that she has this daughter, the girl could make a legal claim. Not that it’s any concern of mine. Let the vultures fight over it. I’m content with what I have.”

  “How much is left in her fund?”

  “I suppose around fifty, sixty grand.” He turned to his wife and held out an empty glass. “How about one more?”

  “You should be getting ready for dinner.”

  “One more.”

  “You’re a terror!” But Ceese took the tumbler anyway.

  Decker asked, “So you haven’t been contacting the Order, threatening to take Lyra away from them?”

  “How many times do you want me to answer the same question?” Herbert protested. “The answer is no.” He took the refilled glass from his wife. To Decker he asked, “Sure you don’t want a beer?”

  “Positive.” Decker stood up, suppressing anger at the two of them that perhaps wasn’t justified. Cold, smug and distant, the Farranders were a parental nightmare. Still, Maureen must have put them through hell. “Thanks for your help.”

  Ceese said, “I do hope you find Lydia.”

  “Lyra,” Decker corrected.

  “How old is she now?”

  “Thirteen. Would you like to see a picture of her?”

  Ceese knitted her brow. “Well, all right.”

  Decker showed her the black-and-white snapshot. Ceese glanced at it, tried to look away, but the expression held the old woman’s gaze. She sighed. “Oh, dear. I’m getting a little misty.” She averted her eyes. “Thirteen’s a difficult age. Maybe she ran away. Have you considered that?”

  “Yes, ma’am—”

  “Ceese!” She wagged a finger at him. “I’m not that old.”

  Herbert began to chortle, his face turning deep purple. “Depends on who you’re looking at.”

  “You’re awful!” Ceese said. “I’m getting dressed.” She turned to Decker, her eyes still watery. “You can see yourself out?”

  “No problem.”

  Herbert hoisted himself from the chair. “Better start sprucing up.” He stopped, coughed up something into a handkerchief. Then he faced Decker. “If you see Maureen, tell her…tell her, if she calls, I won’t hang up.”

  Slowly he trudged toward the staircase, climbing each riser with the effort of an old man.

  17

  Beyond the edges of the Order’s compound, beyond the last remnants of urban life, lay stretches of open Southern California land. The eastern landscape should have been scrub as far as the eye could see, but the recent rains had turned the area lush with brush and wildflowers. The gnarled trunks of the oak trees had greened with moss, and soaring eucalyptus trees were covered with white, papery blossoms. As the sun fell low in the sky, Marge’s eyelids grew heavy. The ride was long and monotonous. With Pluto in the backseat, she and Scott couldn’t discuss the case, which would have galvanized her mind, keeping her alert. Rather than succumb to slumber, she opened the thermos of leaded coffee.

  “I’ll take some of that.” Oliver spoke over the hum of the engine.

  “Are you tired?” Marge handed him the thermos. “I can drive.”

  “No, thanks. I’m fine.” Oliver swigged coffee and cocked his head toward his shoulder. “At least, he’s out.”

  Marge regarded Pluto. The little man’s eyes were closed, his mouth was open, and his chest was moving up and down in rhythmic pattern.

  Oliver kept his voice low because people often heard things in their sleep. “I’m also hungry. Think we can grab a quick dinner after we’re done?”

  “If it doesn’t take too long.”

  “When does Deck want to meet with us?”

  “We’re supposed to call him when we’re done,” Marge said. “I figure around ten or eleven. I’m not expecting to find much in the way of letters. But you never know.” She tapped the steering wheel. “I’ve got some tickets to a concert Friday night—Mozart. Nothing too heavy. Want to come?”

  “What about James?”

  “The ER’s shorthanded this week. He’s picking up the slack.”

  Oliver said, “I’ve got a blind date.”

  “A blind date—”

  “Shhhh!”

  Marge dropped her voice. “Sorry.”

  “It’s not totally blind!” Oliver qualified. “I saw a picture of her…good-looking girl.”

  “Don’t tell me—blond, blue eyes, big tits—”

  “Three for three—”

  “Around fifteen years old, Scotty?”

  “Twenty if she’s a day—”

  “Probably stunted in the cerebral cortex—”

  “Don’t doubt it. Why else would a cute girl date a guy old enough to be a patriarch—”

  “You’re not that old—”

  “Frankly, I don’t care if she’s blank between her ears. You don’t fuck a brain.”

  “Then you wonder why you can’t sustain a relationship.”

  “Well, you’re not winning any medals in that department.”


  “I beg your pardon! I’ve been with James for nearly six months.”

  “La-dee-dah. Tell me where to send the anniversary present.”

  Marge smiled while regarding her partner. Objectively, Oliver was a good-looking guy, with a head full of black hair, strong bone structure and intense dark eyes. He didn’t hold a whit of attraction for her—she knew him too well—but she could definitely understand how he got women.

  Oliver smirked. “Maybe she’s premed.”

  “And I’m the next supermodel, Scotty.”

  Oliver glanced at her. “You know, Margie, you really sell yourself short.”

  Marge’s first instinct was to buck. Instead, she held back. “Was that a compliment?”

  “I think it was.”

  “Well then, thanks…I think.” Marge was whispering. “What are we actually looking for? Letters? Secret files?”

  Oliver shrugged ignorance. “I think Deck wants us to make sure that Andromeda and the kid aren’t hiding up there.”

  “Why would they hide up there?”

  “Beats me. But I know Deck just wants everything buttoned up and shut tight. Right now, the ranch is a question mark. He wants to rule it out.”

  Marge looked out the side window. Night had blanketed the hilly landscape. All that remained were shadows and inkspots. “How much longer?”

  “Why? You have to use the potty?”

  “Just answer the question?”

  “Around a half hour.”

  “Thank you.”

  Silence.

  Oliver turned on the radio. “You like country?”

  “Probably all we can pick up around these parts.”

  “I like country.” He adjusted the dial until he found Shania Twain belting out a torch song about long-lost love. “Ever see this girl? She’s a real piece. She and the Dixie Chicks. Man, those gals are hot babes.”

  “The Dixie Chicks?”

  “I’m not making it up.”

  “The Dixie Chicks,” Marge repeated. “Used to be an insult to call a woman a chick. Whatever happened to feminism?”

  “Look at it this way, Marge,” Oliver said. “Dixie Chicks is a much better band name than the Hairy Armpits.”

  She glared at him. “Did I just invite you out?”

  “You did.”

  “Momentary lapse of insanity.”

  “Or sanity. I’m what keeps you going. Let’s face it, Dunn. Any guy you date looks better than me.”

  With no city lights to keep the sky aglow, the place was as dark as pitch. Straining to find the turnoff, Oliver kept the car at low speed, kicking up clouds of dust from the unpaved pockmarked roadway.

  He muttered, “Someone should’ve told me that I’d need a four-wheel drive.”

  Pluto said, “You should have thought of that before your boss dragged me out here. Exactly what is the purpose of this trip?”

  “Lieutenant Decker wants to locate those threatening letters.” Marge added under her breath, “If they ever existed.”

  “Why would we make them up?” Pluto asked.

  “So you’d have someone to blame for Andromeda’s absence.”

  Pluto tightened. “Andromeda wasn’t a prisoner. If she wanted to leave, she could have done so. Need I remind you that Lyra is also missing. Why would a little girl leave on her own?”

  Marge had no answer.

  Pluto said, “I’m worried sick about the both of them…that Asnikov really crossed the line on this one. If Andromeda got in the way…well, let’s just say that people like Asnikov get nasty when crossed.” The little man’s eyes studied the darkness. “You’ll need to slow down. The driveway’s hard to see. We’re almost there. Over to the left just beyond that stunted oak tree. There!”

  Oliver reduced his speed even further. The only thing he saw was a narrow pitted rut. He turned the wheel sharply, and the car plowed through a cover of loose feathers. “Jesus!”

  “Keep going—”

  “How much longer?”

  “About twenty more feet. You can park there.”

  Oliver crawled forward to the designated spot, stopped, then killed the motor. The cackles of fowl could be heard even with the windows closed. He opened the door and stepped into piles of dirty plumage. It smelled like shit and dust. “Man, they’re loud. Do they ever sleep?”

  “The artificial lighting keeps them going. It promotes egg laying.” Pluto wiped dust from his black T-shirt and jeans. For the dirty assignment, he had taken off his purple vest and the blue robe he normally wore. “We turn off the lights around twelve. Then they quiet down.”

  Marge came out of the car and made a face. “How can you sleep with that noise? Don’t the neighbors complain?”

  “What neighbors?” Pluto started fast walking toward a dark shadow. “Let’s get this nonsense over with.”

  Oliver had to march to keep up with him. His newly polished black Oxfords were dusted with grime. They looked muddy brown. “How long has the Order owned this place?”

  “Around eight years.”

  “Long time. Is it profitable?”

  “Profit is immaterial. It provides the Order with a source of food, which means independence from the violators of the outside world.”

  “You have someone who maintains and guards it?” Marge asked. “To make sure that no one steals the chickens?”

  “I’ve already answered that. A farmhand named Benton lives on the premises.”

  “Ah yes,” Oliver said. “Good old Benton. Is he a member of the Order?”

  Abruptly, Pluto stopped walking. “A charity case. Not unlike Moriah. He’s a decent watchdog and he doesn’t mind shoveling bird shit.”

  Oliver asked, “Is this guy crazy?”

  Pluto broke into a slow grin. “He isn’t Norman Bates, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

  “Oh, that’s reassuring—”

  “He’s very dedicated to Father Jupiter. We haven’t told him the news.” Pluto picked up his pace. “Someone’ll have to break it to him. It will be quite a shock to his psyche. But tonight’s not the night. Not with you around.”

  Marge asked, “How often do you come out here?”

  “Someone from the Order comes up once or twice a week—to collect the eggs and do a chicken count.”

  Marge used long strides to keep up with the little man. “Which of you come up here? You? Bob—”

  “Both of us…Nova and Venus as well. And of course, Jupiter. He used to come up as often as he could. He said the long ride served as meditation time for spiritual enlightenment. Eased his tired mind—”

  “And his headaches?”

  Pluto stopped walking. “What headaches?”

  Marge waited a few moments. “Venus said Jupiter used to have these headaches. He’d hear voices…voices that spoke to him. It made him weary.”

  Pluto clenched his fists, but said nothing.

  Oliver said, “First you’ve heard of it?”

  No answer. “This way,” Pluto said softly. He stopped in front of a broken-down, one-story structure and swung open a squeaky screen door. He tried the door. When he found it to be locked, he took out a ring of keys.

  “Where’s Benton?” Oliver asked.

  “Probably out slaughtering some chickens. I told him I needed around three dozen.” Pluto’s eyes bore into Oliver’s. “You can watch, Detective, if you’d like.”

  Scott took the bait. “I’ll do even better. I’ll shoot the suckers in the head for you.”

  Marge said, “Not a good use of your service revolver, Detective.”

  “You spoil all my fun,” Oliver answered.

  Pluto kept monkeying with the bolt. “For some reason my key is jamming.”

  Marge assessed the house as the guru played with the lock. Even in the dark, she could tell it was in disrepair. The clapboard siding was a mass of peeling paint like a giant reptile in various stages of molting. The wooden planks of the wraparound porch were splintered and, in a few places, had broken through. Finally, sh
e heard the bolt click.

  “Water must have rusted it. I’ll have to tell Benton to oil it.” Pluto swung open a creaky back door. “Here you go.” He pushed the door forward. “Help yourself. Watch out for spiders and scorpions. And don’t pet the rats. They bite.”

  Marge kept her voice flat. “Is there a light switch somewhere?”

  Pluto stuck his hand through the door frame and turned on the light. “I’m going to see about the chickens.”

  “I’ll come with you,” Oliver said.

  Pluto said, “I don’t know if Benton would like that.”

  Oliver turned hard. “It was a statement, sir, not a request.”

  Pluto shrugged. “Watch your suit jacket, Detective. Blood is notoriously hard to clean out.”

  The little man took off, but Oliver dogged his heels. Someone had to watch Pluto, so Scott had given her the job of searching around a rat-filled, insect-laden, broken-down hovel.

  It was the preferable of the two assignments.

  Thousands of stars salted the sky, but it did little to enhance the terrain. The topology was as flat as stale beer. In the distance, Oliver could make out a few stunted shadows casting ghoulish figures on the hard-packed ground—probably century-old, disfigured oaks. The air smelled like overripe produce. As he neared the bunkerlike coops, the squawking turned to shrieks of terror—panicked cries on a sinking ship. Oliver knew his imagination was working overtime, but the cackling was loud. It blotted out the sound of the gravel crunching beneath his feet.

  The chickens were housed in thirty-five hundred feet of wood-planked bungalows. Jaundiced light gave the hay roof an eerie, postnuclear glow, and shot out beams from the knots in the wood. Amid the cackling, a high-pitched screech stabbed Oliver’s ears. Involuntarily, it made his heart jump. He found his hand patting down the butt of his gun from under his jacket. Pluto seemed unfazed.

  “Benton?” he yelled out.

  No one answered.

  “This way.”

  He motioned Oliver around the structure, to the back of the coops. The odor was more pronounced: a stench—metallic and fecal. The outdoor area was dimly lit by two kerosene lamps. Scattered on the ground were wire cages of clattering hens protesting like inmates. Oliver had to sidestep around them. A metal stake had been driven into the surface like a tetherball pole. Tied to it was an industrial battery pack flashlight, which illuminated the scarred, flat surface of a three-foot-high tree stump. Across the top of the stump was the stretched neck of a bound hen, its dirty wings flapping spasmodically, its legs kicking helplessly. Desperately trying to break loose from a lost cause.