Satan’s Lambs (14 page)

Lena chewed her lip. “Eloise told me that Archie and Jeff took pictures of people during, you know,
meetings
. Whatever. She said they used them to encourage ‘donations' to the group.”

Mendez scratched his chin. “The killing definitely looks like some kind of blackmail dodge. We may be seeing an internal squabble. Considering the nature of the hit.”

“Were you right? Were there thirteen bullet wounds?”

“Eleven. But they found thirteen slugs. Looks like the shooter missed a couple of times.”

“And the way they cut him up. Is that typical?”

Mendez shrugged. “There's not a rule book, Lena. Some of these groups make things up as they go along. But it's the right—”

“Flavor.”

“That's one way to put it.”

Lena put her chin in her hand. “How does Hayes fit in?”

“Don't know. But he used to lead a pretty hard-core group based in the area where he grew up. They may have members all over. Anywhere. Somebody had to run things while he and Archie were in prison. We may be seeing blackmail, or some kind of power struggle. There's no way to tell.”

“Do you think Hayes has Charlie?”

“We've been watching his place, trying to pick him up since he showed at your house that last time. He hasn't been home.”

“You'll get him.”

“Maybe not.” Mendez took a breath. “The captain pulled our man off. So unless we get lucky.” He shrugged. “I'm on my way to Knoxville right now.”

“Something going on?”

“Hackburton has a tip. Sounds remote, but you never know. What I'm interested in is the clinic. There are plenty of places Valetta could have gone. Why
this
particular one? Why Knoxville?”

“He got connections—family in the area?”

“None we know of. He's a Kentucky boy. From Jackson. Hackburton's checking on this Dr. Whitter. Getting a list of license numbers on cars in the clinic parking lot, for comparison to any numbers they can pick up at Valetta's funeral.”

“When is that?”

“Coroner hasn't released the body yet. And nobody's claimed it.”

“Eloise told me Archie and Jeff went down that way sometimes. On business.”

Mendez nodded.

“What are you going to do down there, Joel?”

“Talk to Hackburton. Retrace likely routes from the clinic to the motel. See if I can figure out where he lost Charlie.”

“You're looking for a likely place to dump a body.”

Mendez was quiet.

Lena stood up. “I sure hope you're wrong, Mendez.”

“I'll call you when I get back.”

“You do that.”

Lena turned left off Rose Street, onto the UK campus. She passed an empty guard booth and parked the Cutlass. It was dark out, raining. She locked the car and ran up twelve concrete steps to the sidewalk.

The Funkhouser Building was an old brown brick monster. There were at least six ways to get in—not counting the black metal fire escapes that ran down the ivy-covered sides. The Funkhouser had been built before security concerns tainted the architectural vision.

She went in from the side, up steps that were rain slick and worn. Inside, the black-flecked linoleum was muddy and wet, and Lena felt her shoes slide. She walked carefully up four flights of stairs to the second floor. Huge radiators, painted creamy white, hissed and emitted bursts of heat. The hall smelled like a laundromat.

Lena wandered down the hallway until she found room 207. She hadn't been in the Funkhouser Building since Psych. 102. She had gotten a C minus.

Dr. Caron looked younger than he sounded on the phone. He sat on the edge of an old wooden desk, cleaning a pair of wire-rim glasses while he talked to his students. There were circles under his eyes. He was clean shaven, though it was high time for another one, and his clothes looked as if they'd been slept in. He wore brown corduroy pants and a red-and-black flannel shirt. There were felt-tip pens in his pocket.

“Sounds like you guys had a better spring break than I did,” he said absently. “Anyway.” He frowned at the thick lenses of his glasses, then put them on. “Next week we get back to the books.” He waved a hand at the board. “So be sure and get the reading down.”

Page numbers and cryptic abbreviations were scrawled in small, knotlike handwriting at the top left corner of the board. On the other side of the board, someone had been playing hangman with red and blue chalk.

Murmurs broke out and chairs scooted back. Seven or eight students were packing up notebooks and scrambling for umbrellas. They watched as Lena approached the desk.

“Dr. Caron?”

“Hi. I'm Walt Caron.” He took her hand. “You're Lena?”

“Yes.”

He looked over her shoulder at his students. “See you next week.”

They took the hint and left. He closed the heavy wooden door.

“Okay if we talk here? My office is across campus in the med. center.”

“Sure,” Lena said.

It was a large room, and it felt larger at night, with the lights bright, and darkness filling the gallery of windows that lined both outside walls. Lena shivered. The room was filled with tables and chairs. She sat down on a table and looked at Caron.

“I appreciate you seeing me on the instant like this.”

He shrugged and leaned against his desk, cocking his head sideways. “Valerie said it was pretty important.”

“It is.”

“How do you know Valerie? Did you meet at …” Caron spread his hands.

“At the crisis center?” Lena smiled. “Not the way you're thinking.”

“I meant as a volunteer.”

“No.” Lena looked out a window. “How do you know Valerie?”

“I did my doctoral dissertation out there. And Valerie and I used to see each other. Way back.”

“You're that Walt.”

“Yeah.” He laughed. “Why? What'd she say?”

“Nothing bad, honest. She tell you anything about my sister?”

Caron blushed. “Actually, she did.”

“Good. It'll give us a jumping-off point, because this is kind of connected. Jeff Hayes was my sister's husband. Her killer. He got out of prison a few weeks back.”

Caron sat back on the edge of the desk. His expression was interested, alert without being avid, good eye contact. A good therapist, Lena decided, though she didn't think he saw patients. Talent waste.

“This is complicated, but a client of mine was once married to one of Jeff's … associates. Cohorts. Partners in crime.” Lena grimaced. “This man also just got out of prison. For reasons that are too complicated to go into, this man, this Archie Valetta, kidnapped my client's son. He's four years old and his name is Charlie.”

“Is he Valetta's son?”

“No.”

“Sorry. Go on.”

“Valetta took the child with him to Tennessee, and a couple of days later got himself killed in a motel room.”

Caron tensed. “And the boy?”

Lena shook her head. “Don't know. He wasn't in the room. We don't know for sure what happened to him.”

“How can I help?”

Lena liked him for it. Why had Valerie let this guy go?

She gave him a small smile. “I have reason to think … I'll be honest with you, I don't know for sure. The killing was likely some kind of cult hit. And Jeff and Valetta were involved with a cult before they wound up in jail. I think maybe Jeff either has the boy or knows where he is. Did Valerie tell you anything about Jeff's involvement with cults?”

He nodded. “Yeah. It's in my line.”

“I know. We're talking about an entrenched family type of group. One he grew up in.”

Caron nodded.

“I found Jeff's old
Book of Shadows
. You know what that is?”

“A kind of occult diary. A journal of activity.”

“Right. And he talks about a cousin of his. I know a little bit about this cousin. Her name is Melody Hayes, and she was born in LaRue County, Nash, Kentucky, in 1954. And she was, and may still be, in some kind of mental institution. Jeff's book talks about M being tortured in the ceremonies, and I think it's probably her. So I want to find her. Because she might be able to tell me some names of people involved in Jeff's group. I can't go door to door, you know, asking about devil worshipers. If I can get a lead on some of the people in the group, they may know about Charlie. They may even have him. I know it's a hell of a long shot. I know Archie may have killed the little boy and dumped the body. I can't tell you I have some kind of psychic feeling Charlie's alive, I can only tell you I hope he is, and I'm trying to find him any way I can. The police are following up the Tennessee end. But I think that Jeff knows where Charlie is. Anyway, does any of this make any sense?”

Caron frowned and walked around the desk, settling in a ladder-back chair. He took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. “How much background do you have in satanic cults?”

“Only what I pick up from my relatives.”

He smiled and leaned back in his chair. “This is something of a speciality of mine. I got involved about ten years ago, with students on campus. The kids, you know, they're usually just dabblers, misfits, plain curious. Mainly, they're a danger to themselves, with drug abuse, or suicide. What you're talking about, though, is a hardcore, long-term adult group. I haven't done any counseling in that area. But I've studied up. And you're closer on track than you realize. What's the date exactly? It's the seventeenth, isn't it?” He made a face. “You get your income tax done?”

“Yeah. Easy enough with my income.”

He frowned. “There's a dangerous time coming up, if the cult really does have the boy. The end of April, around Easter. I think maybe the twenty-fourth, or the thirtieth. Let's see, there's St. Mark's Eve and Walpurgis Night … or is that February? I'm sorry, I'll have to check some notes. But the point is it's a very big event. One that particularly might pose danger to a male child.”

Lena slid slowly into a chair.

“What do you mean, particular danger?”

Caron sighed deeply. “A pure white male sacrifice. Prized for this particular sabbat.” He shook his head. “I don't know if I should have brought it up. Most satanic groups don't do sacrifices, certainly not human. But the kind of group you and Valerie describe, and considering Hayes's track record and Valetta's death. They sound like a serious bunch. I'm sorry.”

“So.” Lena swallowed. “Time's running out.”

“I could be way off base.”

“No. You just said out loud the kind of stuff I've been worrying about. But what about now? You think he's being hurt right now? Molested? Every minute he's gone, who knows what could be happening to this boy.”

Caron chewed his fingernails, noticed what he was doing, and stopped. “You're right, anything
could
be happening. But if it
is
what you're worrying about, that he is in the hands of this cult Hayes ties up with, understand how it can work. A Satan worshiper who molests children is different from the typical pedophile. In the typical situation, you have an adult who genuinely may love a child and can't comprehend that sex with a child is wrong.”

“Crap. I don't believe that for a minute.”

Caron's jaw tightened, then relaxed. “Okay, it's one theory, for certain situations. In any case, a pedophile wants to be around the child, and has constant urges. Let's say he knows it's wrong. He still has those urges. In this situation, though, with a satanist, there is no anger, and no abnormal love. The child is a means to an end. The abuse is
ritual
abuse. And done only in context of the ritual. It may satisfy their perverted urges, but they justify it as ritual.”

“Can we cut to the chase here, Walt? You're saying that, if we're lucky, they may be saving him up? And if I get to him in time, they won't have molested him?”

“That's pretty much what I'm saying.”

Lena grabbed the edge of the desk, clenching and unclenching her fingers. “All right. I need you to help me find this Melody Hayes. Do institutions specialize? Would any of your co-workers know where she might be? Patient lists …”

“This is very sticky, you know.” He thought for a moment, absently scratching his cheek. “Here's what I can do. Some of the people I've worked with here, over the years, have been working in the area of multiple personality.”

“So?”

“Understand. The kind of cult we're talking about here, where they take children, and subject them to ritual abuse from an early age, may create victims that are multiples. The theory is that the satanists are intentionally creating alter personalities—you could speculate forever on why. Paths for demons, whatever, who knows? But their methods of abuse, putting a young child through extremes of torture, often by a parent or grandparent, a figure of trust, will cause the child to fragment, to create alter personalities, because the child can't integrate their experiences of good and bad. So if you work with multiples—and there are still therapists who don't believe that multiples exist, by the way—but if you work in that area, a healthy percentage of the patients come from this kind of hardcore cult background. Not all children subjected to this sort of thing are multiples, of course. But there is a lot of networking, very informal, with colleagues who treat the multiples and other cult victims. I know some folks who do quite a lot of work in this area, and I consult with them when I work with my teenagers—whose problems are quite different, actually.

“So I can ask around about this cousin. Explain what's at stake. Just understand two things. Melody Hayes will not be put through anything that will hurt her. And she'll have to agree to talk to you. And if her therapist doesn't want her messed with, that'll be the end of it.”

Lena nodded. “Remember, though. Charlie is four.”