Nowhere Land: A Stephan Raszer Investigation (4 page)

    
The
visitor was seated, as Brigit had described, on a low concrete pillar at the
end of the short driveway, the steel toe of his work boot anchored against the
right rear tire of Raszer’s rebuilt 1966 Avanti. At first glance, he looked
like a rag peddler—if rag peddlers still worked the streets. Too proud for a
bum, too straight spined and stalwart for a junkie. On second look, he was John
Brown at Harper’s Ferry, complete with nineteenth-century attire, motionless as
a figure at Madame Tussauds. It was on that reappraisal that the man, without
shifting his broad shoulders an inch, spun his head like an old barn owl and
aimed his gunmetal eyes straight at the bay window. The hair bristled on
Raszer’s neck, and his diaphragm contracted sharply enough to force the wind
out of his lungs, but he stood his ground and did not flinch. He returned the
stare with reciprocal severity, then took a very deep breath and let go of the
curtain.

    
“I told
you he was creepy,” Brigit said.

    
“And I
told you to wait in the library,” he replied, and glared at Monica, who stood
wide-eyed, her hands on Brigit’s shoulders.

    
“God,”
Monica whispered. “He looks like that anti-abortion nut. The guy with the
fedora and the raincoat who was always there before a clinic got bombed.”

    
“He’s
pretty old-school, all right,” said Raszer. “I haven’t seen a hat like that
since my grandpa died. I’d pay good money for his brown duster, though.”

    
“I don’t
recognize him from any of our photo files, do you?”

    
“Nope.
Hey—”

    
Brigit,
who had the cunning of a sprite, had slipped out from under Monica’s fingers
and stood at the window.

    
“He’s
crying, Daddy.”

    
“Come
away from the window, Brigit.
Now
.”
Raszer stepped to the door and peered through its single pane of glass. Sure
enough, the old man held his big, bearded head in his hands while his broad
shoulders quaked with grief. “I’m gonna go out and talk to him,” said Raszer.
“Just be ready to call the sheriff if he pulls a sawed-off shotgun out of that
coat.”

    
Raszer
himself did not keep firearms in the house, and had only rarely found it
necessary to carry a gun on assignment. His skills were those of a tracker, not
a hunter. As he walked down the rain-slicked driveway, however, he felt
distinctly unarmed. He was the perfect target for an act of vengeful mayhem,
and the stranger’s torment was as potent a threat as anger. Raszer came to
within three yards, then halted.

    
“Are you
all right, friend?” he called out.

    
The old
man lifted his head from his left hand. He had a large, aquiline nose, thin
lips, and gray eyes with whites the color of beaten egg yolks. His right hand
was parked inside his coat, where there was a visible lump. Raszer moved a foot
closer.

    
“I’m
sorry for your grief, sir,” he said steadily. “This weather’s having the same
effect on me. But this is a private home, and there’s a child inside. Unless
you have business with me—”

    
“
Stefan Razzer
?” the stranger said, his
voice deep and clotted.

    
Raszer
cocked his head. “It’s
Stee-van
with
a long
e
. Makes it simpler. And the
last name is
Ray-zer
. Believe me, it
was even more unpronounceable before my grandfather changed it.” He took a
breath. “And who might you be?”

    
 
The man said nothing at first, just held his
bloodshot stare. Raszer determined at that moment that this haggard patriarch
was not on the trail of a renegade wife. Up close, the look in his eyes was
more haunted than accusatory. He was somebody’s father or grandfather, and he
was not, despite the sagging brim of his old fedora, a vagrant. None of this
made him any less a threat. The lump inside his coat shifted, and Raszer knew
that Monica must be growing alarmed. He moved in another step. The old fellow
was beginning to teeter like Humpty Dumpty, and Raszer reasoned that if he got
close enough, he could unseat him before he had a chance to pull out a weapon.

    
“Don’t
mean to be ungracious,” he said, “but we’ve had some trouble lately. Would you
mind showing me what you’ve got inside your coat?” Raszer put one hand behind
his back, where Monica could see it from the window, and dialed an imaginary
phone. “Why are you here?” he insisted.

    
“To save
my daughter’s soul,” the old man said, lips trembling, and suddenly rose up to
a height exceeding six feet. Raszer’s mind raced through the possibilities. Was
this an oath of blood vengeance or a plea for help? Abruptly, there was no time
for thought. He drew his hand from his coat. Raszer feinted right, crouched,
and delivered a well-aimed kick to the funny bone, disabling the grip and
dislodging the concealed weapon, which fell to the wet sidewalk with a dull
slap. As the man staggered, Raszer stepped back and cast a wary glance down. At
his feet was a bound stack of
Awake!
magazines, the publication of the Watchtower Bible and Tract Society.

    
“You’re
a Jehovah’s Witness . . . ” Raszer said, incredulous, staring at the bundle of
soggy pulp while his heart settled. The stranger backed away, his offended arm
raised in defense. For a moment it looked as if he might turn and run.

    
“I’m
sorry,” said Raszer. “Truly sorry. I thought . . . are you all right?”

    
“Perhaps
I’ve come to the wrong place,” the man replied.

    
“No, no
. . . I don’t think so,” Raszer countered, palms raised in peace. “Tell me
what’s on your mind. Tell me about your daughter. Did—did you say her name?”

    
“Katy.”
A small spasm caused the corner of his mouth to twitch. “Please,” he added. “If
I can trouble you for a few moments . . . ”

    
Raszer
stooped to pick up the stack of magazines and handed them back to his visitor,
whom he now assayed to be no more than sixty-two, behind the full beard and
parchment skin. “Of course,” he said. “Although we’re not among the anointed
here.”

    
“You’re
the detective. The cult man from the papers.”

    
Raszer
winced. “Don’t believe everything you read in the papers.”

    
The
stranger sputtered and doubled over in pain.

    
“Easy
there,” said Raszer. “Let’s get you out of the rain.” He hoped he hadn’t broken
any bones. The last thing he needed was another lawsuit. He put a hand on the
man’s back, but the intimacy was unwelcome. The man shook off his pain
stoically.

    
“My Katy
has been taken,” he said, once his wind had returned. “Will you help me find
her?”

    
Raszer
looked up at the window and gave Monica an “all clear” nod.

    
“I may
be able to do that,” he said. He paused for a moment in the driveway and
regarded what the rain had brought in.
Redemption
comes in strange packages
, he thought; this one wrapped up more like his
typical adversary than his average client. “If you’ll tell me everything you
know about her.” He offered his hand. “I’ve told you my name,” he said. “May I
have yours?”

    
“Silas
Endicott,” the man replied, extending a bony hand. A patrol car rolled up the
steep, wet street from Franklin Avenue and executed a U-turn in the cul-de-sac,
coming to a stop ten feet away. The cop riding shotgun leaned out.

    
“Everything
all right here?” the cop asked.

    
“Yeah,
we’re fine,” Raszer answered. “This is Mr. Silas Endicott of the Jehovah’s
Witnesses. Just here to make me repent for my sins. Sorry for the false alarm,
Officer.”

    
The cop
smiled and gave the old man a once-over. “He’ll have a long list of ’em to work
through with you, Mr. Raszer. No problem. Uh, stay dry.”

    
“I’ll do
my best,” said Raszer, who was by now soaked to the skin. “You too.”

    
Silas
Endicott, after a few restorative sips of hot tea, explained that he was an Overseer
in what the Witnesses called the Watchtower Society—the herald of the
Apocalypse on Earth. If a sect was—by standard definition—small, then the WTS
had long since exceeded the standard. Raszer knew that in many nations of the
West, it was the second-largest religious denomination. Endicott’s designation
made him an elder of the church, but even the elders were obliged to hawk the
Watchtower
and
Awake
,
and the fellow
asserted he’d knocked on every door on Whitley Terrace on his way up the hill,
sowing seeds of faith as he aimed for his destination. It was—to Raszer—clear
that his guest was in a highly agitated state, and possibly not at all well.

    
“Your
daughter,” Raszer asked. “Is she also a church member?”

    
Endicott
winced and wrapped his shaky hands around the teacup for warmth.

    
“She . .
. was raised at my knee in the Kingdom Hall,” he replied. “There never was a
more pious little girl, or a better daughter.”

    
“And
Katy’s mother?”

    
“Left us
when Katy was six,” Endicott replied, with more than a trace of bitterness. “It
was for the best. She was a whore.” From the corner of his eye, Raszer saw
Monica lift her pen from the legal pad, not in shock as much as out of
curiosity. In the background and just out of sight, Brigit slid down the
hallway doorjamb and parked herself on the threshold, all ears.

    
“So you
brought up Katy on your own?” Raszer continued.

    
“Myself
and the elders,” the old man replied. “And there were
good
women in the congregation who helped when she came of age and
became a pioneer. She was accepted into the Little Flock when she was
thirteen.”

    
“The
Little Flock,” Raszer repeated, rifling through his mental files. “Those are
the folks bound for heaven after Armageddon, right? The anointed class . . . ”

    
“You’ve
studied our faith, Mr. Raszer?” Endicott raised an eyebrow.

    
“Any
faith with twenty-two million subscribers worldwide is worth studying, wouldn’t
you say? Faith’s too important to be left to the preachers. What
motivates
it is what drives my work . .
. especially when that motivation is suspect.”

    
“Do you
judge our motivation suspect, Mr. Raszer?” Endicott asked with a glare.

    
“I don’t
judge, Mr. Endicott. That would only get in the way. I start from the
presumption that people need to believe, and as long as what they get back
doesn’t harm or bankrupt them, I’m fine with it. But I do question, and I think
it’s only reasonable to question a gospel that allows only 144,000 privileged
souls a berth in heaven. Those odds would make even a high roller cool his
dice.”

    
“Perhaps,”
said Endicott. “But look around this abode of Satan, Mr. Raszer. Can you
honestly say that more than one in four million deserves paradise?”

    
“I’ve
never doubted the Devil’s reach, Mr. Endicott. I just don’t happen to think
that God assigns quotas for salvation.” He tapped his fingers on the table.
“But that’s beside the point.”

    
“Yes,”
said Endicott. “If I were looking for a man of my own kind, I wouldn’t be in
Hollywood. I’m looking for someone who understands . . . the other side.”

    
“Right,”
said Raszer. “Let’s talk about your daughter. How long has she been missing?”

    
“As the
police in Azusa have it, she was last seen on this earth on February first of
last year. But she was lost to me long before that.”

    
“We’ll
talk about that,” said Raszer. “But let’s get some basics first. Azusa—that’s a
fair distance. Is that where you—and Katy—live as well?”

    
“Yes.
For nineteen of her twenty years. Our lives revolve around the Kingdom Hall.
Hollywood is a fifty-minute bus ride away. Not so very far, but then, in three
decades I’ve not had cause to descend to this . . . gutter. Not until now.”

    
“Well,
at least we’ve had rain to wash the garbage away,” said Raszer, neither
expecting nor getting a smile. “Tell me about the physical circumstances of
Katy’s disappearance. Were there others involved—a boyfriend, girlfriend? Did
she pack a bag, leave a note? Is foul play suspected? Tell me what the police
know.”

    
At that
prompting, Silas Endicott remembered to remove his hat, perhaps moved to
courtesy by the gravity of what he was about to relate. He set it before him on
the table, maintaining a tight grip on the brim. Raszer read the gesture as
playing for time, and possibly also as that of a man who feared his daughter
was dead.