CHAPTER

41

The doorbell, followed by spirited knocking, woke me at seven a.m. My clouded brain knew what was happening: Allison had come by before work, wanting to make up.

I stumbled out of bed, padded to the door in my boxers, flung it open with a welcoming smile.

Milo stood there, wearing a tired green blazer, gray cords, yellow shirt, brown tie. In one hand was a box of Daffy Donuts, in the other two extra-large cups of the same outlet’s coffee. He squinted at me as if I were a rare and unsavory species.

“Revenge?” I said.

“For what?”

“Last night’s wake-up call.”

“Huh—oh, that. No, I was just dozing in the chair. Stayed up till three, working over a bunch of scenarios.”

He stepped past me. I left him in the kitchen and put on a robe. When I returned, the box was open, revealing a jarringly vivid assortment of fried things. Milo’s paw was wrapped around a coffee. He’d made admirable progress on a bear claw the size of a puppy.

Same thing he’d ingested during the second meeting with Drew Daney and I said so.

“Yeah, I was inspired,” he said, spewing crumbs. “Give grease its due.” He pointed at the other cup. “Drink and awaken, lad.”

“Daffy instead of Dipsy?”

“My local purveyor, indie outfit. I’m doing my bit for free enterprise.”

I sipped the coffee, tasted copper and dishwater and something vaguely javalike. Fighting the urge to spit, I said, “Decide on any new scenarios?”

“No, I’ve decided to go steady with the one you gifted me with: Cherish tried the shrink bit, moved too fast, scared the hell out of Rand, Drew caught on.” He stuffed what was left of the bear claw in his mouth. Sugary lips twisted upward. “Here I was thinking all that pacing you therapy folk do—all those months of ‘Uh huhs’ and ‘I hear you’s’—was to keep the payment rolling in.”

“Here I was thinking cops didn’t always sacrifice their pancreases to sucrose.” I yawned. “Are we off somewhere this morning or is there more to talk about?”

“We’re off when Sean calls.”

“When’s that?”

“I told him to start watching the house at seven and touch base hourly. Finish your coffee, get cleaned up and dressed.”

“Two out of three ain’t bad,” I said, and left the cup on the table.

When I got back he was sprawled in the living room, cell phone to his ear, nodding and pumping his left leg. “Thanks, great, really great.” Snapping the phone shut, he stood. “You still look half-asleep.”

“You don’t,” I said. “What’s fueling you?”

“The remote possibility that things could fall into place. That was Sue Kramer, God bless her. She was up with the birds, too, following leads in other time zones. If I were of the hetero persuasion I’d betroth her.”

“She’s already married.”

“Picky, picky. Anyway, she found out a few things about both our boys. Let’s get going, I’ll tell you in the car.”

He asked me to drive and when I started up the Seville, his head dropped onto his chest. As I took the Glen toward the Valley, he snored with gusto. At Mulholland, his head shot up and he began reciting as if there’d been no lull.

“The cowboy was born in Alamogordo, like I said. Moved to Los Alamos when he was ten because the ranch where his dad worked shut down and Pops got a janitorial gig at the nuke lab. The family lived there for ten years. One sib, an older sister, married with kids, works for the city of Cleveland. After high school, Barnett did a couple of years as truck driver, then he got a job with Santa Fe P.D.”

“He was a cop?”

“Worked patrol for eighteen months until a couple of complaints about undue force brought him and the department to a mutual understanding.”

“He quit, no prosecution.”

He nodded. “After that, there were some years when he reported no income, as best as Sue can tell, he drifted around as a laborer. He got on the dude ranch circuit ten years ago, moved to California. After he got married, he switched to swimming pool maintenance. Other than a short temper with suspects when he was twenty-one, he’s got nothing iffy in his background. The surface impression seems to be all of it: a taciturn loner whose life hasn’t turned out so great.”

“As opposed to Daney.”

“Reason he was hard to trace is he changed his name. He was born Moore Daney Andruson, is five years older than he claims on his driver’s license. Grew up in rural Arkansas, one of seven kids, at least three of whom have ended up in prison for violent crimes. His folks were itinerant preachers on the hillbilly circuit.”

“The part about growing up in the church was true,” I said.

“More like growing up in revival tents. With reptiles. His daddy was one of those rattlesnake handlers, religious rapture supposed to protect him against venom. Until it didn’t.”

“How’d Sue find all this out?”

“Despite being a scumbag the name change was legal and Daney has been reporting income with the IRS, on and off since he was eighteen. His credit history as Moore D. Andruson bottomed out twelve years ago. Lots of unpaid bills, a couple of bankruptcies.”

“Wonder why he bothered to file returns,” I said.

“He didn’t have much choice. His early jobs were salaried, required withholding, SSI, all that good stuff. Now that he bills the state, there’s different paperwork required.”

“What kind of jobs are we talking about?”

“Guess.”

“Youth work.”

“Camp counselor, substance abuse counselor, substitute teacher, Sunday school teacher, gym coach, always in small towns. He put bogus degrees on his applications and that eventually got him kicked out of three jobs in three different towns. After that, he tried suburbia, drove a school bus for a girls’ preppie academy in Richmond, Virginia.”

“What a surprise.”

“That’s where he met Cherish. He was Drew Daney by then. She’d gotten a degree from Bible college, was teaching retarded kids at another school.”

“He’s got no southern accent,” I said. “More reinvention. His employers discovered his phony credentials after they’d hired him. Meaning they got suspicious about something else and checked him out.”

“No doubt, but no one’s being free with the details. Sue had to work just to get them to admit they knew him.”

“Meaning they kept it in-house. Anyone report the credentials scam?”

“Nope, they just sent him packing.”

“To his next victim.”

“So what else is new?” he said. “He did manage to acquire a police record, but not the type that would get entered in NCIC or any other national file. Indecent exposure pled down to a misdemeanor trespassing in Vivian, Louisiana; bad checks settled by reimbursement, no jail time, in Keswick, Virginia; sexual assault in Carrol County, Georgia. That one was dismissed. Sheriff said he knew Andruson did it but the girl he was accused of seducing had cerebral palsy and could barely talk. They figured she wouldn’t make the grade as a witness, wanted to spare her the ordeal.”

“Moral of the story: go for the vulnerable.”

“I asked Sue to find what she could on that missing girl, Miranda. Gave her Olivia’s number. Talk about your meeting of the minds.”

Out of his jacket pocket came tinny music. No more Beethoven, some sort of Latin beat. He reached in and extricated his cell phone. It kept tangoing as he checked the caller’s number. He had reprogrammed the ring. I’d thought it was mostly kids who did that.

“Sturgis . . . yeah, hi. No, there’s no parking on the property. I’m sure, Sean. You’re positive you didn’t miss anything? Well, that definitely complicates things . . . hope not . . . yeah, yeah, check all that out, our E.T.A.’s fifteen, twenty, I’ll call you unless you learn something earth-shattering.”

Click. “Sean’s been in place since six forty-five. Neither Daney’s Jeep nor Cherish’s Toyota are in sight. Ditto for Malley’s black truck. The gate’s closed so he can’t tell if anyone’s home. No sight or sounds of any kids, but he’s a hundred feet up. I told him to list the plates of any cars on the block and run them.”

“Both gone, separate cars,” I said.

“Maybe they went for doughnuts. Why don’t you drive a little faster?”

I sped over the canyon, raced through morning traffic, finally reached Vanowen just after eight. Milo got back on the phone and asked Binchy about the vehicle registrations. “No, keep going . . . no, no . . . hold on, repeat that one . . . interesting. Okay, stay there until we show up. Thanks mucho, lad.”

“Something come up?” I said.

“Cream-colored Cadillac DeVille parked right in front of the house,” he said. “And guess who pays the sticker fees.”

The Reverend Dr. Crandall Wascomb looked as if his faith had been tested and he wasn’t sure he’d passed.

He opened the gate within seconds of Milo’s pounding, stepped back, stunned.

“Dr. Delaware?”

Milo’s badge made his shoulders drop. Not dismay, relief. “Police. Thank goodness. Cherish called you, as well?”

“When did she call you, sir?” said Milo.

“Early this morning,” said Wascomb. “Just after six.”

His white hair floated above his brow and he had dressed haphazardly: heavy gray cardigan buttoned out of sequence so that it bunched mid-chest, white shirt with one bent collar point, maroon tie knotted well short of his neckline. Behind his black-framed glasses, his eyes were watery and uncertain.

“What did she want, Reverend?”

“She said she needed my help immediately. Mrs. Wascomb’s not well and I keep the phone in the hallway rather than at bedside so as not to wake her. The ring got me up, but at that hour I assumed it was a wrong number and didn’t get out of bed. When it rang again, I answered and it was Cherish, apologizing for disturbing me. She said something had come up, implored me to come to her house as soon as I could. I tried to get her to explain. She said there was no time, I simply needed to believe her, hadn’t she always been a faithful student.”

Wascomb blinked. “She had been.”

I said, “Was she distraught?”

“More like . . . anxious, but in an efficient way. As if she was faced with a sudden challenge and was rising to the occasion. I wondered if one of the children, or Drew, had taken ill. I asked her again what was wrong and she said she’d tell me when I showed up. If I’d come. I said I would and went to get dressed. Mrs. Wascomb had stirred and I told her I was having one of my insomnia episodes, she should go back to sleep. I instructed the housekeeper to keep an eye on her, got myself presentable, and drove over.”

His eyes compressed as they traveled from Milo to me. “When I arrived, the gate was open but no one was in the house. The front door had been left unlocked so I assumed Cherish wanted me to come straight in. The house was empty. I looked around, came back out. I was growing quite alarmed. Then a young woman came out of there.”

He cocked his head toward the pair of outbuildings. Converted garage painted pale blue to match the house. Off to the side, the odd-looking cement block cube.

The door to the cube was ajar.

“I left it open so the girls wouldn’t feel confined,” said Wascomb. “There’s only one window and it’s bolted shut. Two of them were in that other building, the blue one, but I assembled them all in one place until help arrived.”

“Have you called for help?” said Milo.

“I was thinking about who to call when you arrived. There doesn’t seem to be any crisis, other than Cherish and Drew not being here.” Another look at the block structure. “None of them appear to know what’s going on, but perhaps she didn’t want to worry them.”

“Them being the kids.”

“Yes, the flock.”

“The flock?”

“That’s how Cherish referred to them in the instructions.”

“What instructions?”

“Oh, dear,” said Wascomb. “I’m getting ahead of myself, this has all been so . . .” From a pocket of the cardigan he pulled two sheets of paper folded to postcard size.

Milo unfolded them, read, jutted his lower jaw. “Where’d you find this, sir?”

“When I looked around the house, I peeked into the bedroom and saw it on the desk.” Wascomb licked his lips. “I noticed it because it lay in the center of the desk, atop a piece of blotting paper. As if she wanted me to see it.”

“Was it folded?”

“No, flat. It really seemed as if she’d intended for me to read it.”

“Anything else on the desk?”

“Pens, pencils,” said Wascomb. “And a strongbox. The type banks use for safety deposit. That, of course, I didn’t touch.”

Milo handed the papers to me. Two pages of neat, forward-slanting cursive.

The Flock: Instructions for Daily Care

1. Patricia: Lactose-sensitive (soy milk in the fridge). Needs special help with reading and penmanship.

2. Gloria: Ritalin 10 mg. before breakfast, 10 mg. before dinner, self-esteem issues, doing well in all remedial areas but needs a lot of explicit verbal encouragement.

3. Amber: Ritalin 15 mg. before breakfast, 10 mg. before dinner, Allegra 180 mg. as needed for hay fever, penicillin allergy, shellfish allergy, doesn’t like meat but should be encouraged to eat some chicken; math, reading, penmanship . . .

Milo said, “Looks like she’s been preparing to be gone for a while.”

Wascomb said, “Cherish was always an organized student. If she did leave for an extended period, I’m sure her reason was sound.”

“Such as?”

“I couldn’t tell you, Lieutenant. But I do have the utmost respect for her.”

“As opposed to Drew.”

Wascomb’s jaw set. “I’m sure the doctor has told you of our problems with Drew.”

“He’s gone, too,” said Milo.

“They are husband and wife.”

“You think they left together.”

“I don’t know what to think, sir,” said Wascomb.

“When Cherish called she mentioned nothing about going away, Reverend?”

“No— Is it lieutenant? No, she didn’t, Lieutenant. I fully expected her to be here when I arrived. If Cherish didn’t call you, sir, may I ask why you’re here?”

“Protecting and serving, Reverend.”

“I see,” said Wascomb. “Will you be needing me any further? I’d be happy to pledge Fulton’s support for the children, in the short term. However—”

“Could you stick around a bit?” said Milo. “Show me that strongbox?”

“It’s right on the desk, Lieutenant. I should be getting back to Mrs. Wascomb.”

Milo’s hand alit on Wascomb’s sleeve. “Stay for a short while, Reverend.”

Wascomb smoothed down his hair to no effect. “Of course.”

“Appreciate it, sir. Now let’s tend to the flock.”

The interior of the cube was twelve feet square, with a red cement floor and block walls painted a pinkish beige. Three wood-frame double bunks were set up against the sidewalls, two on the left, one on the right. A white fiberglass booth in the far right-hand corner was labeled toilet. Flower stickers decorated the door.

A sliver of wall space hosted three double-decker dented metal lockers. An L.A. Unified School District Surplus sticker was at the bottom of one, Practice Spontaneous Acts of Kindness on another.

The solitary window was set into the back wall, screened and bolted. The pane was wide enough to let in a funnel of diffuse, dusty light. Animal-print curtains had been parted. The view was the rear wall of the property and the black tar roofline of a neighbor’s garage.

Beneath the windowsill sat a squat, six-drawer chest. Stuffed animals shared the top with tubes and bottles and jars of cosmetics. Off to the side, a stack of Bibles.

Eight girls sat on the three bottom bunks, wearing pastel-colored pajamas and fluffy white socks.

Eight pairs of teenage eyes took us in. Narrow age-range; my guess was fifteen to seventeen. Six Hispanic girls, one black, one white.

The room smelled of hormones and chewing gum and face cream.

Valerie Quezada sat at the front of the rear left-hand bunk. Fidgeting, rolling her shoulders, playing with the ends of her long, wavy hair. Two other girls moved restlessly. The others sat quietly.

Crandall Wascomb said, “Morning, young ladies. These are the police and they’re very nice. This gentleman is a police lieutenant and he’s here to help you, both these gentleman want to help you . . .” He flashed us a helpless look and trailed off.

Milo said, “Hi, there.”

Valerie pointed a finger. “You were here already.”

Milo cued me with a tiny movement of his head.

I said, “Yes, we were, Valerie.”

“You know my name.” Accusatory.

Some of the girls tittered.

I said, “Where’s Cherish, Valerie?”

“Left.”

“When did she leave?”

“When it was dark.”

“Around what time?”

Her stare told me the question was absurd.

No clock in the room, no radio, no TV. Light from the window would be the sole arbiter of time.

The room was clean—spotless, the cement floor freshly swept. Each of the six bunk beds was set up identically with two smallish white pillows and a white top sheet folded over a pink blanket.

Blankets tucked military-tight.

I didn’t see Wascomb ordering the girls to make their beds. They had a routine.

I said, “Anyone else have any idea what time Cherish left?”

A couple of head shakes. Neatly groomed heads. The girls appeared to be well-nourished. How often did they leave the property? This room? Were meals taken in the main house, or eaten here? Did homeschooling extend to occasional outings? Maybe that’s why no one had answered the phone when I’d called a few days ago. Or . . .

What did it do to your sense of reality to inhabit this tight, sterile space?

“Anyone want to take a guess?” I said.

Valerie said, “They don’t know nothing. It was me saw her leave. Only.”

I walked closer to her. More giggles. “Did you talk to her, Valerie?”

Silence.

“Did she say anything at all?”

Reluctant nod.

“What did she say?”

“She had to go out, someone would take care of us.”

One of the other girls elbowed her neighbor. Valerie said, “You got a problem?”

“I ain’t got no problem.” Quick retort, but meek voice.

“You better not.”

Wascomb said, “Now, let’s keep everything calm, young ladies.”

Milo said, “What about Mr. Daney? When did he leave?”

“Drew left before,” said Valerie.

“Before Cherish?”

“Yesterday. She got mad at him.”

“Cherish did?”

“Uh-huh.”

“What was she mad about?”

Shrug.

I said, “How could you tell she was mad?”

“Her face.” Valerie looked to the other girls for confirmation. Pointed at a bespectacled girl with thin straight hair. The girl began making squeaky noises with her tongue against her teeth. Valerie’s glower failed to stop her. My smile did.

I said, “So Cherish was mad at Drew.”

Valerie stomped her foot. “Trish?” Pointing at a pretty, long-legged girl with boyish hair and a fine-boned face marred by acne.

Short for “Patricia.” Lactose-sensitive. Special help with reading and penmanship.

She didn’t answer.

Valerie said, “You can tell she’s mad from her face. Say that.”

Trish smiled, dreamy-eyed. Her pajamas were sky blue with white eyelet borders.

“Say it,” demanded Valerie. “Her face.”

Trish yawned. “She never got pissed at me.”

“Just at Drew,” I said.

Another girl said, “He didn’t come home last night, prolly that made her mad.”

I said, “She didn’t like when he didn’t come home.”

“Nope.”

“Was that often?”

Shrug.

Valerie twisted a thick rope of black hair around her finger. Let it uncoil and watched it drop past her waist.

I turned back to her. “Was it once a week? Something like that?”

She gazed up at the mattress inches from her head. Rolled her shoulders and tapped her fingers and beat out a rhythm with one foot.

“Valerie?”

“Time to shower,” she said.

“Where do you shower?”

“The other place.”

“The main house?”

“The other place.”

“The building next door.”

“Uh-huh.”

I tried Trish again. “Did Drew go out a lot?”

“He was here except when he went out.” To Valerie: “Like when he went out with you-u.” Slowly spreading smile.

Valerie’s eyes flashed.

Trish said, “Tell him. You went out all the time. That’s why you always need to shower.”

Valerie got up from the bunk and charged her. Trish waved her long arms uselessly. I got between them, pulled Valerie away. Soft middle but her arms were tight and her shoulders were granite lumps.

“It’s like true,” said another girl.

Yet another opined, “He went out with you all the time, you gotta shower.”

Voice from a bunk across the room: “You get to sleep in the other place.”

“You get to shower whenever you want.”

“ ’Cause you dirty.”

Val grunted and fought to free herself from my grasp. She was sweating and the moisture flew off her face and hit mine.

“She freakin’ out.”

“Like she always does.”

Trish said, “He takes you out all the time!”

Valerie let loose a string of obscenities.

Wascomb shrank back.

Trish said, “She gets up at night and walks around like a . . . like a . . . vampire thing. That’s how she saw Cherish.”

“She wakes us up. It’s good she’s in the other place.”

“Tell ’em, Monica. You sleep in the other place now, too.”

The sole white girl, pug-faced and strawberry blond, stared at her knees.

“Monica goes out.”

“Monica gots to shower.”

“Bitch!” screamed Valerie. She’d stopped struggling but shook her fist at one group of girls, then the others. Her eyes were hard, dry, determined. “Shut up!”

“Admit it, Monica! You gots to shower!”

“He take you out, too, Monicaaaa!”

Monica hung her head.

“Admit it, Monicaa!”

Individual comments coalesced to a chant. “Admit it! Admit it! Admit it! Admit it!”

Monica began crying.

“Fuck youuu!” screamed Valerie.

Wascomb said, “That kind of language really isn’t—”

“You the fucker,” said Trish. “You and Monica fuck him every night and then you shower.”

“Valerie fucks! Monica fucks! Valerie fucks! Monica fucks!”

Wascomb braced himself against the wall. His skin had turned chalky. His mouth moved, but whatever he was saying was swallowed by the noise.

Val lunged and nearly broke free.

Milo came over and the two of us steered her out of the cube.

The chanting continued, then faded. Behind us, Crandall Wascomb’s voice, thin and tremulous, filtered out into the morning air. “. . . some prayer. How about Psalms? Does anyone have any favorites?”