Satan’s Lambs (19 page)

Hayes wore a large black overcoat that swayed against his legs. He moved quietly, until he stood just a couple of feet behind the chair. Lena switched on the huge black flashlight.

“Hello, Jeff.”

She heard him catch his breath. He stepped back, squinting, throwing his arm up in front of his eyes.

Not Hayes. A bald man, with his face painted—diamond patterns, black and white.

“That you, Lena?”

It was Hayes. He had shaved his head.

“Going to a costume party?”

He stared into the dark corners of the room, then at her. He knew where she was.

He smiled. “Welcome to the theater of cruelty.”

How like Rick he was. Give him a spotlight, and he would perform.

“The bread of life is broken.” He held up a hand. “And it is death. The rock shall crush thee, and thou shalt perish in the fount.”

“Gee, Jeff, I would've made popcorn if I'd known you were putting on a show.”

Hayes frowned. “So, Lena. How did you find out about Mr. Enoch?”

“You'd be surprised.” Lena held the baseball bat.

Hayes walked to the lamp and turned it on. Yellow light pooled in the center of the room. “
Mr. Enoch
is surprised. And unhappy. But I didn't tell him who
you
are, because I don't want anything to happen till I get all my reasons. Ninety thousand reasons, Lena. We still on for the deal?”

“Yeah.”

“Then get the money. Have it at hand.”

“And then what?”

“I'll let you know. You still bank at Commerce, don't you? Go to the Valley Road branch, and see the teller at the second slot from the front door. His name is F. Breeding. He works ten to five. He'll have to let one of the vice presidents know.”

“Know what?”

“Banks get funny sometimes, Lena, when people take out large amounts. I don't want some perky little teller calling the police, or checking to see if you're paying a ransom. So do as I tell you. Make sure and go to F. Breeding. He'll talk to a Mr. Franklin, and you won't have to answer embarrassing questions. You got that?”

“Breeding and Franklin. And then what?”

“And then I'll let you know.” Hayes cocked his head to one side. “I
don't
want Mendez in on this, Lena. If I see him, or any cops, or see you go to the cops, the deal's off. The money's what I want, so I'm willing to trade you the kid.

“And believe me, Lena. You don't want Charlie going to the Easter services. They can be … draining. For now he is very sanguine. Afterwards, he will be exsanguine. You understand me?” Hayes did not smile.

Lena considered a dictionary.

“Be ready,” Hayes said. “And I hope Rick is good at covering his tracks on the boards. Mr. Enoch is looking. You don't want him to find you. He is very hard on lambs.”

30

Rolling Ridge was a private hospital, likely expensive, consisting of one-story yellow brick buildings that were old but well kept up. A wide expanse of lawn surrounded six or seven low buildings and a network of interlacing sidewalks.

Lena checked her watch. Three-thirty. She'd come straight from the bank to Nashville, and she glanced at the canvas bag of money. Ninety thousand dollars. A bit much to fit in her wallet. If she and Hayes weren't careful, the money would be stolen.

Should she leave it in the trunk, or carry it with her? Hayes might be watching for just such a chance. She'd carry it with her.

She parked her car—there were plenty of spaces. There were always too many or too few. Organ transplants might be possible these days, but parking lot design was still beyond societal skills.

Lena passed through the double glass doors at the front of the main building. The windows were threaded with wire mesh.

What would it be like to be inside looking out?

The receptionist was young, male, and solidly built. He wore a pair of chinos, a sport shirt, and a heavy leather watchband that made Lena think of restraints. His arms were thick and muscular, and Lena wondered if he did other things besides answer the phone.

Delores Criswold met Lena in the hallway. The beige-and-black-specked floor tiles were getting the once-over from a depressed-looking woman in a blue work smock. She swung the heavy buffing machine left and right, putting a shine on the ingrained dirt.

Criswold was short, rounded, with black, gray-flecked hair. Her eyes, behind steel-rimmed glasses, were alert and kind. She shook hands with Lena.

“I 'preciate you letting me come,” Lena said.

Dr. Criswold looked at her speculatively. “Walt explained about the little boy. I hope you find him.”

“I'll find him.”

Criswold narrowed her eyes. “Melody is very strong. She'd have to be, to survive the things she's been through. But this is a difficult time of year for her. Please use good judgment when you talk to her.”

Lena nodded. “I don't want to bother her. I don't want to cause her problems. But Charlie is four years old.”

“That's what Walt said. And Melody's staying overnight for a while, so she ought to feel as safe as she can, this time of year. But don't stay past five-thirty or so, okay? That will give her plenty of time to wind down and get her mind on something else well before dusk.”

“Sure,” Lena said.

Delores Criswold nodded. “You'll find her just down the corridor. Take a right, then a left. First door you come to. Just go on in. She knows you're coming.”

“Right, right, left,” Lena said.

“If you get lost, Zack will show you.” Criswold nodded her head at the man at the front desk, turned, and headed down the hall.

“Dr. Criswold?”

She stopped.

“What's the problem with dusk?”

Criswold looked at the woman buffing the floor. She moved close to Lena, her voice low. “That's when they used to come get her. At night after supper. Just as the sun went down.”

The sign on the door said Do Not Disturb Any Further. Lena heard voices and music. A burst of laughter. She knocked.

No one came to the door. Probably, from the noise level, no one heard the knock. She closed her eyes for a moment, her grip easing on the canvas bag of money. She was tired. No sleep last night. Just Hayes, Hayes, pulsing in her head. And Whitney. And Kevin. And Charlie.

Lena opened the door a crack. The music and the voices stopped.

Rolling Ridge was not a mental institution in the sense of restraints and state auditors, but it was a residential facility for the mentally ill, and Lena regretted that the knowledge made her look more closely at the people in the room.

There were seven of them. Four men and three women, all lounging in chairs and holding instruments. Lena saw a cello, a banjo, a violin, a guitar, a mandolin, another guitar, and a flute.

The woman with a cello between her legs wore Mickey Mouse ears and was blowing a large pink bubble. She frowned at Lena. The bubble gum lost air and sagged onto her chin.

“Excuse me,” Lena said. “I'm looking for Melody Hayes.”

No one said a word. Everyone watched her.

“I'm her.”

A girl in a blue wheelchair with an empty IV pole looked at Lena. A violin rested in her lap. She clutched the bow tightly.

“Lena Padget.”

The girl stood up. The wheelchair had been a place to sit, no more.

“Y'all go on and play,” she said to the others. “I'll be back in a while.” None of them moved or spoke. Melody looked at Lena. “Come on with me.”

She was slender. Skinny, actually, and no taller than five feet four, though her thinness made her seem taller. She wore heavy Levis, snug over the tiny bump of her hips, but gaping at the waist. She wore a short-sleeved knit blouse, faded pink, and her tennis shoes were cheap, dirty, and scuffed.

Standing up, she drooped like a flower blasted by the sun. Her arms hung to her sides, the elbows dry and knobby. Her hair was brown and long, thin and wavy. Her face was tiny and heart-shaped, her chin pointed, her eyes heavily made up.

She had a woeful, bedraggled look.

Lena followed Melody Hayes down the hall. Behind them the room stayed silent.

Melody headed for a door marked Exit and pushed the bar handle. Lena looked over her shoulder, half expecting someone to stop them.

“It's okay,” Melody Hayes said flatly. “I got the run of the place. They don't keep us locked up or nothing.” She paused by a white concrete bench and sat down. “It's a little damp,” she said. “Must of rained here earlier. This okay with you? We could go back in.”

Lena sat on the bench. It was cool on the back of her jeans. “This is okay.”

The wind blew Melody's hair in her face, and she pushed it out of her eyes. She looked at Lena, her expression an appeal for something.

“You sure you want to talk to me?” Lena asked.

“It's okay,” Melody said. “I talk all the time to Delores. I'm what you call desensitized. Or getting that way.” She leaned forward. “I wanted to come outside so nobody can hear us. I think it would be all right, but you never know. Sometimes it's hard not to be paranoid. Everbody knows everbody, and things seem to get back to Jeff.”

“Have you seen him lately?”

“Not
seen
him, exactly. But even in prison … he finds ways to let me know he's around.”

Lena nodded.

“
You
seen him? Since prison?”

“Last night,” Lena said.

Melody caught her breath. “What about?”

Lena shrugged, not wanting to give away the arrangements for Charlie. “He was strange. Wore a black overcoat, and he'd shaved his head. And he'd painted his face. In four diamond sections.”

“White and black,” Melody said softly. “Getting ready for the big show. Practicing, probably. Did he say anything?”

“It's hard to remember the exact words.” Lena frowned. “Life listens, death speaks. The bread of … something, I don't know.”

“That's all?”

“He said something about a Mr. Enoch. Do you know who that is? He said Mr. Enoch is hard on lambs.”

Melody's face went from pink to white. “
Lambs?
He said lambs?”

“Yeah. Why?”

“Just—” Melody took a deep breath. “That's what his mama used to call us kids. Lambs. I went to live with them after my own mama died. I was pretty little. And my uncle Shep and aunt Lisa took me in. Shep and Lisa Hayes. My daddy couldn't care for a kid, 'cause he worked in the mines all day. I don't remember a lot about my mama, but she was a real good woman. I have her picture.” Melody turned away from Lena, her voice low and flat. “You should of known Jeff's mama, though. She was something to see. Little and pretty, black curly hair. I used to love her hair. All dark and shiny and thick. She had long black eyelashes, and she wore White Shoulders perfume. Dressed real nice.”

Melody clasped her hands tightly together, and Lena noticed thick red scars crisscrossing her wrists.

Melody looked at Lena. “She used to call us her lambs. She had this big ole bentwood rocker. And she'd rock us, and love on us, and used to sing that song about little lambs who's lost their way. And she told us all about these watchers that lived in the wood. And if we try to run off, they get us.”

“Did you ever try to run away?”

Melody nodded. “A couple times. They made me stop.”

“How'd they do that?”

Melody's face was expressionless. “I had a pet goat. That's the kind of pet you wind up with, when you live way out of town. First time I run away they said don't, or we'll kill Jester. But they … Something happened real bad, so I run off again. When they brung me back, they killed Jester. Cut his throat and caught the blood in a big blue bowl. Uncle Shep was doing it, but my Aunt Lisa made me hold the knife. She made Shep put his hand over mine, so I'd do it. I quit running off after that. Even though I tried not to have no more pets.”

Melody shook her head. “Sometimes Aunt Lisa—she could be so sweet. She'd talk nice to you, and you'd want so bad to make her happy. But she was always the one to make me do the things. Things I didn't want to. And Jeff was her boy, and she made him do things, too. But they seen real early that he was special. Later he was kind of set apart, and doing things with the grown-ups.

“But when we were littler, me and Jeff used to be real close.” She cocked her head sideways. “They started taking us to what they call the picnics when we was about four.” She frowned. “One time in school some boy asked me to go on a family picnic, and I 'bout clawed his eyes out.”

They were silent a long moment.

“This was how it would go,” Melody said. “Aunt Lisa would give us our dinner first, real early. Then when Uncle Shep would come in, they'd tell us to go on out back and play. And we'd go out and play till dark. We had an old rusty yellow swing set. Musta' been a hundred years old, but we loved it. The slide was bent, and you had to be careful, 'cause one time Jeff cut his hand on the metal, and Aunt Lisa got real mad.

“We'd get sticks and dig in the dirt under the swing set. Didn't have much grass back there. And some nights they would come and get us. After supper, they'd drive us in this old green Buick. The seats were so deep down in the back, that even though I usually got set in somebody's lap, I could hardly see out the windows.

“There was always lots of people crammed in the car, and we got pretty hot back there, even with the windows down. Some of them people didn't smell too good, but you could always get a sniff of Aunt Lisa's perfume.

“And we'd head out for the woods somewhere. State parks sometimes, or campgrounds. Maybe somebody's farm. There was always lots of people there, and they was all busy and excited. They'd bring the altar in back of a pickup, and a whole bunch of men would have to lift it off. They had fires to start up, and people was changing clothes. Jeff and I had to stay out the way. When we got bigger they made us look for sticks and stuff to help keep the fires going.