Bad Scene

by Max Tomlinson

  Vroulike: Female.

  Offer: Offering.

  Colleen felt the blood drain from her head. Light and dizzy now.

  Some of the members were destined to work.

  Others were intended to offer themselves.

  Sex servants? From what Colleen had seen, Die Kerk’s treatment of women left a lot to be desired. But in the light of the fact that the church was named after the Perfect Death, “offering” had a much more sinister connotation.

  She took a sip of fortified coffee, realized her hand was shaking. Her sense of foreboding had transcended standard parental dread. If her theory was correct, some or all of the 242 or so people were on their way to their deaths, perfect or otherwise.

  Including her daughter.

  If they were not already dead.

  Colleen sat back, taking a deep breath.

  She needed advice. Late as it was, she picked up the phone. Called her lawyer, Gus Pedersen, expecting to get his fancy answering machine. But, to her surprise, Gus picked up. Pink Floyd was playing in the background, the thundering, windswept expanse of “One of These Days.” Old hippies never died. They just became radical lawyers. And they seemed to work all hours—at least not the regular ones.

  “Ms. Hayes,” he said in a smoky voice. “Moon Ranch giving you a hard time again?”

  “They’re the least of my worries right now,” she said. “You could almost say we’re friends.”

  “So you gave them their ball back?” Meaning the bag of acid.

  “As good as.” She had mailed the locker key. She told him of Pamela’s connection to Die Kerk. When she was done, she heard Gus take a breath.

  “I guess Moon Ranch wasn’t bad enough for Pamela,” Gus said.

  “I need help.”

  “Yes you do, if Die Kerk is involved.”

  “Can we go to the police?”

  Pink Floyd played in the background. “With what?”

  “The possible deaths of hundreds of people.”

  “Hundreds of willing people. Adults who joined the church of their own volition. Going to some far-flung place. Out of judicial reach.”

  “This is madness.”

  “I know. You know. But the law has precedents.”

  “They’re on their way. If not already there.”

  “Based on a grainy film at a cult church service, which could have been taken last year. You don’t have a timeline. And that’s what you need before we go any further. You need some proof that these people were taken against their will.”

  He was right.

  “So I need to keep digging,” she said.

  “And you need to do it without breaking and entering.”

  “You know what’s weird?” she said. “I didn’t even know my daughter had a passport.”

  “There’s probably a lot you don’t know about her.”

  “How would I find that out?”

  “I can resolve the passport issue more quickly—and legally—than you can.”

  She thought about the note on the file folder she’d seen at Die Kerk—Tennant Shipping. She wished she’d had time to have gone through Die Kerk’s accounting records and dig deeper. She mentioned it to Gus. “Sounds like they might be using Tennant to transport church members down to Ecuador,” she said.

  “I’ll make some calls first thing, reach out to the Feds, see what we can jump-start. But don’t hold your breath. In the meantime, whatever you do, keep it legal. Not like last night, please. You don’t want to land back in prison. You don’t need that kind of trip down memory lane.”

  No she didn’t.

  And neither did Pam.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  “And what do you need a copy of the shipping manifest for again?” the receptionist with 1960s big hair asked. It was sprayed to a sheen you could bounce a ball off.

  “Proof of shipment,” Colleen said, standing before the grand teak desk on the eighth floor of the Tennant building at 215 Market Street, home to San Francisco’s venerable shipping company. Behind the bouffant a credenza loaded with model ships displayed a visual account of Tennant’s history over the last century. The tall picture window showed the silver Bay Bridge across an uncharacteristically sunny San Francisco morning. But one wall of the reception area was lined with moving boxes and men in white overalls were busy carting them away on hand trucks. “For insurance purposes. I did call about it earlier this morning. Chris Hood in Accounts Payable is who I spoke to.”

  The receptionist spun in her chair, dialed a number, asked for Chris Hood. Explained the situation.

  She turned back around, smiling wonderfully, exuding a whiff of flowery perfume.

  “Please take a seat, Ms. Aird. Chris is a little busy this morning but will be out as soon as possible.”

  “There does seem to be a lot of activity,” Colleen said, nodding at the moving men heading back down the hall with their hand trucks loaded.

  The receptionist dropped her voice. “We’re moving offices.” Then she added, almost inaudibly, “Downsizing.”

  “Ah,” Colleen said, noting for the first time that the newspaper on the woman’s desk was open to the want ads. Looking for a job. “I hadn’t heard.”

  The receptionist flashed her perfectly arched eyebrows. “Yes,” she said. “Not good.” She mouthed the last two words.

  “I’m sorry to hear that.” It looked like Colleen might be here for a while. She went over to the waiting area, sat down, smoothing her sensible Glen plaid skirt. Picked up the Wall Street Journal from the coffee table. The Dow Jones was down to 800. It was a good thing she was too poor to own stock. But people were hurting everywhere.

  Eventually a young man appeared, the sleeves of his white shirt rolled up to his elbows. His curly brown hair was cut short. He looked tired. To Colleen’s disappointment, he wasn’t carrying any papers.

  She stood up, gave him one of her Carol Aird, Pacific All Risk Insurance cards.

  “I’m so sorry, Ms. Aird,” he said in a high-pitched voice, holding the card with both hands apologetically. “But we’re swamped. I’ll get your shipping manifest into the mail tonight, I promise. Sorry for the wasted trip.”

  Colleen suppressed a sigh. “Isn’t there any way you could run off a quick copy? My client needs it to qualify for next year’s coverage. We’re almost out of time.”

  Chris Hood frowned. “Don’t they have a copy?”

  “Not a signed one showing trip completion.” She frowned herself, as if in sympathy, then dropped her voice. “Just between you and me and the lamppost, with the recent downturn, we’re being extra careful.”

  “Tell me about it.” He blinked, obviously thinking it over. “I’ll be right back.”

  Five minutes later, Colleen was descending in the elevator, reading the copy of the shipping manifest.

  Die Kerk’s 245 cases of “misc. consumer goods” were delivered to the port of Guayaquil, Ecuador, on November 5th. Actual delivery was 243. Two weeks ago, to the day. Signed off for by customs. The ship was the Fortuna. It had set off from San Francisco, Pier 48. The captain’s name was Spring.

  The elevator stopped on the ground floor with a ding and the guard held the door for Colleen. She thanked him, went out to the lobby, the heels of her mild platform loafers echoing on the marble floor. Stacks of moving boxes were lined up here and there now.

  Two hundred forty-five cases of miscellaneous consumer goods. Two hundred forty-five Die Kerk members destined for Ecuador. Two hundred forty-three had arrived. A company in financial straits. An insane church.

  Outside at a payphone near the Embarcadero, the Ferry Building standing guard, she called Gus Pedersen, her lawyer.

  “Your daughter has no record of applying for a passport,” he said.

  “So if Pam’s in South America, it’s not legal. And whoever took her there is breaking the law.”

  There was a pause. “Yes, but as I said before, I caution you to hold off doing anything that might affect your parole. I understand
there’s a congressman involved in a case against Die Kerk. I’ve got a call in to him.”

  She looked at her watch, wondering how long it would take her to get to Pier 48. It wasn’t far, just down the waterfront.

  “Duly noted, Gus. Thanks so much.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  The sun was shining on the bay as Colleen crossed the Third Street drawbridge over Mission Creek into the southern waterfront, the gridded steel surface rippling her tires. Pier 48 was the first dock this side of Mission Bay. Unlike Pier 50 just past it, which bustled with activity and vehicles, 48 was pretty much a desolate lot, a victim of San Francisco’s declining waterfront. Colleen parked the Torino in the near empty lot, saw a single ship moored bayside. It was pleasantly warm as she walked from the weed-strewn parking lot to the dock, the midday sun overhead, a definite change of late. It felt good to stretch out her limbs, her brown leather bag over her shoulder with some of the tools of the trade, including Little Bersalina of twenty-two caliber fame. She left her jacket in the car. Her green sweater, matching the rest of her Jane Office outfit, was more than sufficient.

  The Fortuna was a dark blue cargo vessel generously stained with rust. About two-thirds the length of a football field, it took up half the dock. A yellow crane was mounted on its deck, pre-container. Colleen didn’t know anything about boats, but this one looked old and worse for wear.

  And, as she got closer, she could smell it. Like a giant urinal.

  It was also quiet. No one around. Perhaps it was lunchtime. Perhaps the Fortuna was out of service. But a gangplank was out. She dug in her bag, found her trusty bogus badge in its authentic beat-up NYPD belt clip holder that she used in situations like this. She clipped it to the strap of the bag hanging over her shoulder. Looked plenty official if one wasn’t looking too closely. She strode up the springy gangplank, squinting at the sunlight reflecting off the water. She’d left the bag unzipped, the heel of the Bersa just visible.

  The Fortuna smelled even worse once on board, stinging her nostrils.

  “Hello?” she called out.

  No answer.

  “Anybody home?” Maybe it should be anybody aboard. But still no answer. Just the water sloshing, the sounds of trucks and machinery on Pier 50 in the distance. Seagulls.

  She walked the deck, found no one. But the cargo hold was open. She entered the bridge, which was the opposite of clean. Charts, cups, papers everywhere. A sweatshirt hanging over the back of the captain’s chair.

  A dining room at the front of the boat looked like it might have been abandoned. Plates and cups on tables. Sacks full of used paper plates against a wall. A lot of paper plates. Bottles, cans. A small galley had not been cleaned in some time. Pots and pans, one tipped over on the stove, dried sauce hardened.

  A lot of people had been here at one time.

  She checked seven of the eight small cabins, four bunks each, all well used, smelling of people. Sleeping bags, blankets, a sock, a broken toy doll. Magazines, newspapers. More dirty paper plates. The captain’s cabin was locked. She knocked on the door. No answer.

  She skipped going into the heads and bathrooms proper, cracking the doors and calling out hello. The stench told the story.

  Down below she found a metal door. Crew Only.

  She opened it, peered into a sizable cargo hold devoid of cargo. The giant hatch was open and the midday sun beat down overhead, thankfully dispersing much of the odor.

  But dozens of ratty old mattresses covered the floor. More sleeping bags. Blankets. Papers. Discarded clothes.

  And there, by a paper plate of unfinished brown glop: a book.

  By Adem Lea.

  Die Perfekte Dood.

  The Perfect Death. She picked it up, flipped through it. Written in Afrikaans, it wasn’t of much use to her. She already knew what Die Kerk was all about. But it told her one thing.

  They had been on this boat.

  Which had just returned from Guayaquil, Ecuador.

  Two hundred forty-five or so members would be her guess.

  “Who the hell are you?” a man’s raspy voice said, slurry.

  Startled, she spun.

  At the door to the engine room stood an emaciated middle-aged man in dungarees, his shirttails hanging out. He had a dark comb-over that had fallen out of place and a pale complexion.

  And, in his right hand, a pistol, like the rest of him, swaying. He was good and drunk. She was more worried he might fire by accident.

  “Whoa,” she said, putting her hands up partway. “I called out several times before I boarded.”

  “And that makes it okay?”

  “Special Agent Aird.” She nodded at the badge on her strap. “State Attorney’s Office. I’m looking for Captain Spring.”

  “You’re talking to him.”

  “Please put that damn thing down first before you shoot someone—like yourself.”

  He lowered the gun halfway.

  “Be thankful you’re not under arrest for pulling a gun on a law enforcement officer.”

  “Arrested for what? You walked onto my damn boat without permission.” He grimaced, waved the gun sloppily. “Let me see that badge. Then you can get the hell off my boat.”

  She unclipped the badge, held it up. “I take it you don’t want this investigation to go smoothly.”

  “Investigation into what?”

  “Human trafficking.” She raised her eyebrows.

  “Bring that damn thing over here.” He gestured with the gun, some sort of revolver. “I’ve got a good mind to report you.”

  She walked over slowly, holding up the badge.

  Up close, he reeked of booze. Not a huge surprise.

  “Intoxicated in command of a seagoing vessel,” she asked. “How bad do you want to lose your license, Captain Spring?”

  “What the hell are you talking about? We’re docked.” He grabbed the ID. “What is this?” He squinted at the badge. “Registered Chauffeur, State of Arizona?”

  “Looks pretty authentic, doesn’t it?” Colleen had her Bersa out now, pointed at his gut. “Picked it up in an antique shop. I put it in an official holder. Not bad, huh?”

  Now it was his turn to jump. His gun was off target by now, pointed at nothing.

  “Give me that thing,” she said. “Butt first.”

  He handed over the gun sideways. She took it, tucked it in her bag.

  “Let’s start again.” She took the ID badge, tossed it in her bag, stood back. “How many made it to Guayaquil?”

  He flinched. “How do you know that?”

  “Because I’m a private investigator,” she said. “And my daughter’s one of them.”

  He went round-eyed. “Your daughter?”

  She reached into her bag, found the Die Kerk black-and-white mugshot-like photo of Pamela. Held it up.

  He frowned. “Yeah, she looks familiar.”

  “How many, total?”

  “Two forty-three,” he said. “Two got off in Panama. Dysentery.”

  “I’m surprised there weren’t more than two,” she said, looking around at the squalor. “But not her, right?” She held the photo up again.

  “No,” he said. “She made it.”

  Colleen gave a heavy sigh. “Where were they headed to after Guayaquil?”

  “Why should I tell you? With your goddamn chauffeur’s badge?”

  “Because you are likely to spend some time in prison,” she said. “My daughter doesn’t have a passport. Those people were taken illegally. The more you cooperate, the better.”

  “They went of their own accord.”

  “Doesn’t make a damn bit of difference,” she said. “And those people are most likely on their way to commit suicide.”

  “What?”

  “Oh, yeah,” she said. “And you transported them.”

  He shook his head sadly, let it hang. “I didn’t spend much time with them,” he said. “They’re bat shit crazy. Their leader had a freaking cross tattooed on his forehead. They talked a
bout some volcano. In between chanting and praying.” He wiped his forehead, pushed his comb-over back up. “Sweet Jesus.”

  “The Throat of Fire.”

  “Yeah, something like that. They were going to walk there.”

  About 125 miles from Guayaquil. A week of hiking. Maybe more. And they arrived in Ecuador two weeks ago.

  Colleen had her work cut out for her.

  “One last question,” she said. “Why? Why did you do it?”

  His face broke into a brutal frown. “Tennant is downsizing.”

  “And you’re one of the lucky ones.”

  He nodded. “Twenty-eight years.”

  “So Tennant doesn’t know the whole story? About Die Kerk’s 245 cases of ‘consumer goods’? 243 which made it.”

  “Put it like this: they didn’t go out of their way to look into things. Not when Die Kerk paid a premium for shipping. They were happy to take their money.”

  “I bet Die Kerk paid you a premium, too.”

  “What difference does it make? Those nutjobs would have found another way to get there. And Papa needs to eat.”

  “Papa needs to drink, by the looks of things.”

  “Who are you to judge me? With your insane fucking daughter.”

  She shook her head. “You need help.”

  Colleen took one last look around, left, heading for the door to the hold. She went up on deck, her mind full of turmoil. She couldn’t deny the truth any longer. Pam was headed to that damn death volcano, if she was still alive.

  She stepped down the gangplank, the afternoon sun blinding.

  “What about my gun?”

  She looked up. Captain Spring was on deck, teetering.

  She stopped, got his .38 out of her bag.

  Tossed the gun into the water. The gun splashed, gurgled down, while Captain Spring looked on, speechless.

  “I just did you a favor,” she said.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  “My advice, Colleen, is to seriously rethink this,” Gus Pedersen said, taking a sip of jasmine tea, setting his cup down neatly on its saucer.

  Four fifteen in the a.m., they were sitting at a Formica table in Hot and Juicy, a 24-hour burger joint just off Castro. Colleen’s lawyer bulged in his chair like a man playing tea party with a child. Gus was linebacker material, with a long thick brown ponytail over his fringed suede jacket. He wore a bushy mustache and sideburns. Colleen had never seen his wide-set eyes without his tinted aviator glasses.