Bad Scene

by Max Tomlinson

  She pulled herself up, hand over hand, got purchase with the other foot, took another cautious step. It was unsteady and took more strength than she expected, but the small balcony was only a couple of feet above her head now.

  “You got it!” she heard Boom hiss below.

  She negotiated another step and her sneaker slipped on the rain-wet stucco. Her knee banged the cement-hard surface. It hurt but not enough to cry out. What bothered her more was the noise. Heart thumping, she saw the base of the balcony was eye level.

  “Keep going!” Boom whispered.

  Colleen sucked in a breath, braced her right foot against the edge of a drainpipe, kept at it. She was rocking side to side but covered the last few feet easily enough.

  “That’s it!”

  At the top of the balcony, she pushed her right foot hard against the drainpipe, grabbed the banister. Almost there.

  She got both arms over the banister, about to pull herself up, when she heard an ominous crack. The banister shifted towards her a fraction.

  She hung on, ignoring the image of free-falling to earth and life as a paraplegic.

  The banister stayed in place.

  “You’re cool,” Boom whispered, standing below her.

  Colleen sucked in a breath and heaved herself up over the wet banister. It creaked again as she climbed onto the tiny balcony. She got into a squat, ears pricked. All she could hear was the wind, the rain blowing, hitting windows, roof, gutters, downspout. Her face was soaking wet. As unpleasant as it was, it provided good sound cover. She unhooked the one-pound weight from the rope, unwrapped the rope from the banister, tossed everything down to Boom.

  She pointed to the exit door below that had been locked, indicating she would attempt to use it on her way out. Boom gave her another thumbs-up, went off to hide in the shadows.

  The open window was about a foot and a half wide. Quietly, she slipped her gloved hands onto the bottom of the lower sash and slowly—slowly—slid the window up. It screeched ever so slightly. She stopped, listened. Okay. She slowed down more. Eventually she got the window open enough to stick her head in.

  She was looking into an upstairs toilet.

  She unhooked her daypack, reached in, set the pack on the floor next to the toilet.

  Climbed in after it. A tight fit. The secret was being quiet. She clambered onto the commode. Once inside, she pulled the window shut back to its original position. It was dark and she didn’t want to switch on the light so she waited till her eyes adjusted. She got her day bag.

  Ready.

  She opened the bathroom door, peered out into the upstairs hall. There was faint ambient light, coming from the entrance hall most likely. Her heartbeats were pumping steadily. But she’d made it this far.

  She ventured out.

  The office where Steve had met with Barend was downstairs.

  She tiptoed to the top of the stairs, looked down into the tall foyer. There was one lamp on a side table, throwing light on the ridiculous painting of Adem Lea. In the current setting, it looked even more surreal. The air was stale with the smell of burnt incense and old sweat.

  She stepped down the semi-circular stairwell, generating a creak. She stopped, listened, picked up speed to the bottom of the stairs. She headed into the hallway downstairs, not far from where she’d had the conversation with Roos when she’d been snooping around last night.

  She stopped, stood, listened. There were the sounds of a big house at night, the rain and wind outside pattering against the windows and roof. Somewhere a boiler clicked off.

  Her first stop was down the hall towards the exit door she had unlocked last night. She found the door, which had indeed been relocked. She didn’t see an alarm. She unlocked it. Her exit set, she turned around, headed back to the other side of the building where the office was.

  She passed the door that led downstairs to the darkened basement. It was ajar. She stopped, thought she heard snoring. Some kind of dorm? Night watchman? She wasn’t about to investigate. But she did pull the door shut, twisting the knob quietly to reduce any sound that might travel from upstairs.

  Over to the office.

  The office was locked, as expected. A Yale cylinder pin-tumbler lock. Soon she had a tension wrench in the lower part of the lock, fishing with a pick from her toolkit with her other hand. Yales needed a light touch.

  The lock gave that satisfying click.

  Tools back in the bag over one shoulder, she stepped inside the office, gently pulled the door behind her. Got her flashlight out. She wasn’t going to turn on the overhead light or a desk lamp.

  Using the flashlight, she headed to the file cabinets on the right side of the room. Four of them. All locked. But any snoop who couldn’t unlock a file cabinet deserved to have her license revoked. Which reminded her, she needed to check the status of her investigator’s license. Sacramento was dragging its feet.

  She had the Chicago locks popped open with a simple lock pick in no time. She’d seen it done with a paper clip. Flashlight in one hand, she started digging through files. It was a little clumsy with gloves but so be it.

  The first cabinet was bookkeeping. Bills and such. She flipped through the files in the drawers quickly. Moved on.

  The second cabinet contained various operational and strategic documents. They were thick files, with drawings, documents, notes, photographs. She dug through those, several referencing Verligting.

  The name rang a bell.

  Brother Adem had mentioned Verligting in the film at the service on 555 Fillmore, the one she’d attended with Brother Arno. A sanctuary of some sort. She remembered a jungle setting and sounds.

  Leafing through she saw several files containing information on what were called “Verligting pelgrimstogte.” Pilgrimages or pilgrims would be her guess. They were ordered by year, three in total, from 1976–1978. 1976 was thick, with plans for a compound and pavilion. A list of approximately two hundred names, all single-word Dutch-style names. “Perfect names,” she assumed, remembering Roos. There were photos of people toiling in a jungle, clearing land, building cabins, a pavilion.

  Was that why so many people were on a pilgrimage, to finish building a utopia? Or make use of a utopia already built? Verligting?

  She recalled Steve mentioning a volcano during his discussion with Barend. She remembered Adem Lea speaking on film at the service as well.

  A newer folder caught her eye: Tungurahua Pelgrimstog, 1978. Current.

  She pulled it, opened it.

  Tungurahua was the volcano in Ecuador. There was a photo of a smoldering peak. The photo had an English caption. Translated from Quechua it meant throat of fire.

  Leafing through the file folder, she found a list of names at the back. Eight pages; 245 names. Brother Adem had said something about 242 in his film. Steve had also mentioned 242. Close enough.

  On the top of the first page was a note in pencil, circled: Tennant Shipping, October 29th. The date itself was also circled.

  Each individual name was a perfect name, followed by a single word, in Dutch, or Afrikaans, or whatever it was: timmerman, loodgieter, rekenmeester, vroulike offer. Some sort of designation.

  Colleen sighed. The “perfect” names gave her no idea if Pamela was on the pilgrimage.

  She set that file back, shut the drawer.

  Keep going.

  The third and fourth cabinets contained personnel records. Hundreds. Many hundreds. The good news was that they were filed by “old” pre-perfect name: first name and last name, in alphabetical order. Her heart beat faster as she leafed through them. Maybe she wouldn’t find a thing on Pamela. Maybe this was all a wild goose chase. She could live with that. Quite easily.

  But, in the top drawer of the fourth cabinet, her fingers stopped at a tab with a very familiar name: Hayes, Pamela.

  She sucked in a deep breath.

  Proof. Actual proof that her daughter was involved with these madmen.

  But was she on that trip?

  Ne
rves thrumming, she plucked the folder. Flashlight in one hand, she opened it.

  She hadn’t seen Pamela for months and even then, only from a distance, the day Colleen had gone up to Point Arenas up the coast a couple of months back and spied on her from the ridge. Above the communal house by the sea. Through binoculars she recalled the feeling when she saw her daughter laughing at something one of the Moon Ranchers had said.

  Paper-clipped to Pamela’s file was a black-and-white headshot. Pam’s hair had grown out and her face was gaunt. Her cheekbones looked sharp. Her eyes had rings around them and stared at the camera with a cool virulence. Her mouth was a flat line. But something about her had matured. More confident, perhaps. Colleen took some comfort in that, hoping it meant Pamela might ultimately take better care of herself, hopefully see danger coming before it was too late. Then she chided herself for seeing what she wanted to see in the middle of the night, her heart full of fear for her only child.

  As a child, Pamela had always been the one that other children took advantage of. Shy, unable to make friends easily, too eager to please the wrong kids, too easy to make a bad trade when it came to toys or comics, too willing to let the other child have their way. Too ready to try whatever the other kids were doing, regardless of the consequences.

  She’d found proof of Pamela’s existence.

  But how did she find Pamela?

  This was the most recent photo of her. She unclipped it, flipped it over before she slipped it in her pocket. Writing on the back. A date.

  Fenna.

  Pamela’s name was now Fenna. Her perfect name. She had joined the church in early October.

  Colleen set the folder on the floor, planning to go through it and photograph it, went back to the other file cabinet, pulled Tungurahua Pelgrimstogte, 1978.

  With shaking fingers, she leafed through the list of names at the back.

  Found the “F”s.

  There she was. Fenna.

  Fenna: vroulike offer.

  And knew that her worst fear was just confirmed: Pamela was on that damn pilgrimage.

  Pulse racing, Colleen checked at random some of the other members whose skill was listed as “vroulike offer.”

  All feminine-sounding names.

  Colleen’s nerves rattled. She placed the Verligting 1978 file on the carpet next to Pam’s personnel record. She unhooked her bag, getting her Polaroid camera out, attaching a flash.

  That’s when she heard a sound.

  Footsteps.

  Footsteps coming upstairs. From the basement on the other side of the building.

  Her heartbeats rushed.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  Colleen heard the muffled sound of a door opening on the other side of the building: the door at the top of the stairs she had shut on her way here. Her nerves ratcheted up.

  No time to photograph the documents that lay on the rug before her. For a moment, she thought about swiping the files but that might only implicate Pamela when they were found missing. She grabbed the two file folders, jammed them back into their respective slots in the file cabinets, shut the drawers quietly, pushed the four Chicago locks in.

  Threw her Polaroid camera in her bag, bag over her shoulder.

  Footsteps came steadily down the hall.

  She tiptoed over to the door, locked it. But whoever was coming probably had a key. She spun, eyed two straight-backed chairs at a small worktable. Rushing over, she grabbed one, took it to the door, jammed the back up against the door handle, wedged it in, back legs off the floor. She tested it. Good and lodged.

  Another escape route was needed.

  The window. She dashed over, heaved it open with a judder. Wind and rain blew in.

  Then she noticed the desk drawer. That gave her an idea. She went back, pulled on it. Locked. She pulled the deeper side drawer. Also locked.

  Footsteps approached the door.

  “Who’s there?” It was Gust. The doorknob rattled.

  She had her mini crowbar out of her bag and jammed it in the deeper drawer, made a particularly messy job of ripping the drawer open, shredding wood. Once open, she found what she was looking for: a metal petty cash box. She pulled it, threw the cash box into her bag. This would look like a burglary, divert attention away from the files.

  “I’ve called the police!” Gust shouted outside. “I’ve got a gun.”

  Not what she wanted to hear. A key went into the lock.

  The door opened but banged against the chair. Gust pushed. Jammed.

  Bag over her shoulder, Colleen headed back to the window. Wind and rain blew as she climbed out, Gust shouting at her. The sill was slippery.

  Fortunately, it was a short drop to the ground.

  Landing in a sloppy crouch, she raised herself up. Hefting her bag, she charged around the back of the building on the wet grass. Slipped on a corner, went down with a thump, got back up. Past the doghouse with the still silent Dobermans, back to where she had climbed up the wall.

  Boom was waiting in the shadows.

  “Someone coming,” she said before he could speak. “Head for the fence.”

  “Roger that.” Boom grabbed his bag.

  Lights came on. The slam of the door inside.

  They pounded across the sodden lawn. Reached the fence as the back door flung open and smacked the wall. A shaft of light spilled out and a man came out in a striped robe, holding a flashlight and, much to the detriment of Colleen’s nerves, what looked to be a pistol.

  “Who’s there?” Gust shouted.

  At the fence, Boom squatted down to cup his hands together again for Colleen’s sneaker. She stepped in quickly, still shaky from her climb up the wall and her tumble out the office window. Boom heaved her over the fence. This time one of the iron spears caught her shin and it hurt like hell. Stifling a yelp, she made it over, onto the grass at first, then rolling onto the sidewalk.

  Somehow Boom got over the fence with little effort.

  Landed beside her in a crouch.

  “You okay, Chief ?”

  “Fine,” she lied. “Let’s go.”

  “Stop!” Gust shouted, running towards them. The flashlight beam bounced as it caught them.

  Boom helped her up.

  “Don’t let him get a look at your face,” Colleen said. Boom’s build was not as distinctive as his race was.

  They ran down Pacheco to where she had parked. The flashlight beam followed but faded in the misty rain.

  “I’ve called the police!” Gust shouted again. All the while the flashlight beam flickered through the railings. But Colleen wasn’t convinced Die Kerk would want the police anywhere near their business anytime soon.

  As they got to her car, an uneasy mix of feelings rushed though Colleen. She finally had something to go on. She just didn’t like where it was leading her.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  It was past one in the morning when Colleen’s Torino rumbled up in front of the Pink Palace, the public housing projects on Turk in the heart of the Western Addition. Even so, a few people were hanging around out front. That meant young black men. One swigged from a bottle. The twin ten-story buildings were an eyesore, as well as a precarious place to be this time of night. Colleen and Boom were drying out, the car heater on high, windows steaming up.

  Boom opened the passenger door to the Torino, got out. He looked into the car.

  “Let me know when you want to proceed, Chief.”

  “Better lay low for a while,” she said. “Besides, you’ve got a final tomorrow.” She had asked a lot of Boom. “Say ‘hi’ to Grandma for me.” Boom’s grandmother had raised him.

  “Ten-four,” Boom said, tapping the roof. “Semper Fi.”

  She watched Boom head over to the floodlit, weed-strewn front of the building. A couple of the ne’er-do-wells nodded to him as he went in.

  Colleen put the car into gear, headed back home.

  A couple of days ago she’d had no idea where Pamela was. Now, she knew her daughter was connecte
d to a shadowy cult church with an obsession for death, and a volcano named the Throat of Fire. Where Pam was most likely headed. If not already there.

  And the clock was ticking.

  Back up Potrero Hill, the rain had stopped and night fog crawled along Vermont Street. Colleen circled the block. No suspicious vehicles. She parked in the dirt lot behind her building.

  Upstairs she flipped on the gas wall heater and headed to the bathroom where she peeled off her jeans, took a look at her shin. She’d had worse but it smarted. She cleaned up the wound, winced as she applied Mercurochrome, slipped on her kimono. In the kitchen she made herself a cup of strong black coffee with a healthy splash of brandy and downed a couple of aspirin. She took her spiked coffee into her office with her day bag. Swirling fog billowed over Potrero Hill. She turned on the desk lamp, got out the cash box, opened it with her lock picking tools at leisure.

  Two hundred and thirteen dollars in an envelope and a load of receipts. She put the money aside for The Salvation Army. St. Peter would surely let her slide on the thievery if she did that. The receipts were nothing special. She put the cash box to one side.

  She got out a pad of paper and a pencil, and the English-Afrikaans dictionary she had purchased at Stacey’s bookstore earlier that day. And started writing while her memory of the break-in was still fresh. She had to hunt around to get the spellings right.

  Timmerman—carpenter.

  Loodgieter—plumber.

  Rekenmeester—bookkeeper.

  These were the attributes listed by the volunteers on the Tungurahua pilgrimage. All were skills needed to build a utopian hideaway in the jungle. Verligting. Which translated to “enlightenment.”

  But Pamela couldn’t hit a nail with a hammer without hitting her own thumb. Couldn’t measure once, even twice, before she cut, and, more to the point, didn’t want to. Not at least when Colleen knew her. So what was her skill for the venture?

  There was vroulike offer—the attribute listed by Pamela’s—and other female names.

  Colleen leafed through her pocket dictionary.