Where Serpents Lie

Eighteen

I sat in room 21 of the Holiday Inn and stared for a while out the window. The sky had gone deep indigo and the breeze was still up. It was seven. Sam had invited me to the stock car races and I’d accepted, recklessly aware that I was disobeying still another order from my commander in chief. I figured, if they didn’t want me to go out and watch cars go around in circles, tough. Plus I’d had a nip or two from my bottle of tequila — I’d bought the second smallest one at the store, a pint — and its courage had begun to set in.

I called Donna but she was on assignment. I left a message from Skip on her voice mail. I called Melinda at home, and when Penny answered we talked very briefly. We were just getting past the hello, how are you stuff when Melinda cut in, asked me not to call the house like that and hung up. I still hadn’t thought of a way to tell Penny the truth without confusing and hurting her, so maybe it was just as well that Melinda cut us off. I resented Melinda for taking sides against me, but I respected what she had to do for Penny — maybe I would have done the same. I left another message for Johnny about the Gene Webb/Webster/Vonn/Grantley or Wanda Grantley home — told him to take the title search into Los Angeles and San Diego counties just to be safe. I blathered on about the Grantley house, Welborn, the great flat state of Texas. I was lonely. Johnny’s machine ran out of tape before I finished, so I had to call back to make sure he had it all, and to wish him good luck. I told him again that I thought they should release the drawing based on Brittany Elder’s description — the “sharp mean face” and the short white hair. After seeing the remains of Mary Lou Kidder, I was in favor of all the proaction we could muster: smoke him out, make him flinch, rattle his cage. I knew the risks, but I thought they were worth taking. I left the same information with Louis, just to double-cover. I did all this in the name of Frank. It made me mad to have to slink around the world as different people. It was demeaning and it implied guilt. That was one thing I wasn’t ready to shoulder, not on the scale that I was being asked to by... Ishmael? A Wade-Vega-Woolton cabal? I. R. Shroud?

Sam picked me up at seven-thirty and we rode out to the track in his sedan.

We sat in the grandstand and watched the cars go by. Sam waved to a half-dozen people on our way up the steps. We had hot dogs and giant beers and the captain had an extra cup for his dip. He had a friend driving in the third race.

“These things’ll get up to ninety-five on the straights,” he said, staring straight ahead as the cars spun past. He hadn’t said much on the way here and I knew why: the sight of Mary Lou Kidder had damaged him.

“You a family man, Terry?”

“Divorced. Had a son but he died when he was five.”

Sam turned and looked at me with his wide, quizzical face. “I’m awful sorry to hear that. Don’t mean to be pryin’.”

“It’s all right.”

The stock cars roared under the lights. I liked the reverberations in my chest and the whining of rpms in my ears. Three cars almost piled up on turn three but they veered out of it in a chaos of white smoke. The Copenhagen Smokeless Tobacco car — irony noted — came out ahead of the Budweiser and Marlboro cars and banked low and fast into the straight to build a two-length lead.

“That’s one of the reasons I started up the Crimes Against Youth unit,” I said. “For my son. Kind of like a tribute to him, or a memorial.”

Sam nodded.

I don’t know why I say things like that sometimes, usually to friendly strangers, bartenders, people I might like a little but don’t really know. It just comes out. Sometimes I say things just to see if I believe them or not.

“Was he a victim, your boy?”

“An embolism while he was swimming,” I lied. “It was an accident.”

“Shame, Terry.”

“You keep them alive inside, somehow.”

“I got three girls, and they’re the best things in my life. Them and their mother. Don’t know what I’d do if something happened to one of them.”

“I know exactly how you feel.”

“You see that Ford out there, the blue one? The guy that built those engines is a buddy of mine. Buck. He’s been workin’ on cars since he was about four. Think he could rebuild a Ford motor blindfolded if he had to.”

The blue Mustang was running fourth now, right up behind the Marlboro Camaro.

I offered Sam the tequila but he shook his head. “Don’t like the hard stuff anymore.”

I nipped and tucked.

“You mind telling me how a guy could feed a six-year-old girl to a snake? I just don’t get it, Terry.”

“I don’t either. Criminal scientists would say that he’s living out his fantasies.”

“Who’s got a fantasy like that?”

“I don’t know.”

“What’s that really mean, though? Living out a fantasy?”

“In basic terms — it means getting off.”

He turned and looked at me again, then shook his head. “Sex?”

“Yeah.”

“Ah, man. Does he have sex with them first?”

“We’ll probably never know on Mary Lou, but I’d guess he did. In Orange County, he isn’t. He isn’t killing them, either. He takes them for a few hours, then lets them go out where there’s no people. He dresses them in old clothes, girls’ clothes — that’s what led us to Wichita Falls in the first place. And he puts these... well, these lacy kind of... robes on them. And he puts hoods on them. I suspect he photographs or tape-records them. Then he lets them go. And they wander around until someone finds them.”

He looked at me again. It isn’t often you see a look of such affronted disgust on a peace officer. “Doesn’t rape them?”

“Not yet. I think he has before. I think he’ll start again.”

“Now why do you think that, Terry?”

“It’s about sex. Sex in his head. Sex in his memory, in bis past. You know how strong it can be. We think about it. Talk about it. Dream about it. Sooner or later, we try our damnedest to make it real. That’s what he’s doing — making it real. And once you start, well, you can call yourself off if you’ve got enough willpower, maybe. But not forever. Not once you know you can get what you need. He’s working himself up to the act again. That’s my take on it.”

“Little lacy robes, like they were angels?”

I thought about that. I hadn’t really figured out the robes — if they even were figurable. I had assumed they were some kind of symbolic skin. Something akin to the shed he’d left in Brittany Elder’s bed. A way of saying that he was about to... change the girls, hatch them into something else. But Sam’s word connected to something I’d thought before, namely, that The Horridus wasn’t — in his mind — taking the girls as captives, he was freeing them. So, maybe they were angels’ robes, or angels’ wings. He was taking them as mortals and releasing them as angels. After what I’d seen today in Wanda Grantley’s backyard, I would have believed almost anything about him.

“Angels, hatchlings — I don’t know.”

“Hatchlings?”

“It’s just a... notion, Sam. Tied in with his snake totem and his fantasy. He calls himself The Horridus. Horridus is Latin for a kind of rattlesnake.”

“If I saw him, I’d shoot him like a rattlesnake. And that’s about how bad I’d feel after. I got no tolerance for people like that. None a’ tall.”

“Get me all of Wanda Grantley’s married names, if you can.”

He looked at me but said nothing.

After the second race we went down to the pits and found his friend, Buck. He was a wiry little guy with a red jumpsuit on and an STP cap tilted way up on his head. Big smile, a drawl. The hood of his Ford was up and Sam leaned in with him for a look at the works. They talked for a minute about the supercharger and how to cool it. I stood back and looked at them, wishing I knew something about cars, wishing I had a friend I’d known for thirty years who I could just be with. Like Sam was just being with Buck — casually interested in the same things, tacitly pulling for each other, relaxed, undefended, whole. The big dark Texas sky seemed to make everybody look smaller to me, to reduce them to a heavenly perspective. It made me feel real small, like I was just one guy out of many millions, walking on feet, breathing through lungs, seeing through eyes and doing the best he can with his seventy years, or whatever I’d get And that’s a good thing, I think: people behave better when they know they’re not the center of the universe. Where I’m from, in California, a lot of them never realize that.

We walked through the pits, Sam spitting into his cup, his free hand jammed into his windbreaker.

“Be a good thing for you to leave in the morning,” he said. He didn’t look at me, but I noted the hard-pressed expression of his face as he looked over the lip of the cup. It was the face of the Sam Welborn you wouldn’t want to mess with.

“You met my team,” I noted quietly.

“I don’t know what you’re into back there, Terry. Don’t want to know. But I’m not supposed to discuss this case with you anymore. I told them you’d be back on that plane first thing tomorrow, and I don’t want you makin’ a liar outta me.”

“Who called you?”

“Don’t ask.”

“I was planning to go, anyway.”

“Puts me in a tough position, you know, because I got nothin’ against you. Fact, I like ya. You helped me out with Mary Lou. You solved a crime I’d been working on for two years and getting nowhere.”

“There’s some politics going on back home. That’s all it is.”

We rounded the pits and stood up by the entryway fence to watch Buck’s Ford rumble past. On the ground like this, the cars were even more impressive — you could feel their power rattling your guts and bones when they were just idling. Buck, lost in a red helmet, waved at us from behind his meshed side window.

There wasn’t much more Sam and I could say to each other. His suspicion, and my implied guilt, hung over us like a black, oppressive sky. I was furious, but had no target for my anger, no vent for my bile.

Buck won and we clapped. After that Sam gave me a ride back to the Holiday Inn.

Twelve hours later I got off the plane at John Wayne Airport, greeted by Jordan Ishmael and two deputies I barely knew.

“Guys,” I said.

“Terry.”

“Nice to see some friendly faces.”

I thought of running for it, but I know a dumb idea when I get one. Most of the time.

They fell in around me and we headed away from the crowd of people awaiting the passengers. Ishmael leaned in close, like he was telling me a secret.

“You’re under arrest, Terry. Unlawful sexual intercourse, lewd act on a child, oral cop. I can waive the cuffs for now but not the Miranda. Let’s head over to that corner there, get it taken care of without causing some big hairy scene, okay? Unless you want me to call Donna Mason for the story.”

Ishmael’s powerful, controlling grip on my arm was the single greatest insult I have ever known.