Dance For The Devil (21 page)

“It’s about my daughter, Suzanne. She’s still missing.”

“How horrible!” she exclaimed. “You poor man! You must be distraught! Can I get you a drink? Cappuccino? Latte? Wheatgrass? Anything?” It took a moment but Jake’s words finally sunk in. “But why are you looking for Amy here? Surely you can’t think.... Oh, Jake. How could you?”

“We have some evidence that links Gil.”

“How can you say such a thing! You know how Gil adores your children. Really, Jake, you’re one of the family.”

“Some family,” Benny muttered under his breath.

Jake ignored him and took Suzanne’s hands into his. “Suzanne, we believe that Gil is involved in some unsavory activities... illegal activities. Can you tell us anything?”

Suzanne looked away. “I don’t know anything about that, Jake. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I think you do. Please, Suzanne, this is my daughter we’re talking about! You’re a parent. Think of how you’d feel if Jason was missing.”

Suzanne looked
back at Jake. He saw something there, something fleeting... something all too brief. “I’m sorry, Jake,” she said, her composure returning. “I really can’t help you. I resent your intrusion and I must phone my husband to tell him about this search warrant. I’m sure that Gil will come home immediately and he’ll be here in a half-hour, maybe less, then he can answer your questions. Do you understand me?” Jake nodded slowly, noticing the funny little tear that welled in the corner of her eye, marking an irregular track down her carefully powdered cheek. “And,” Suzanne whispered, her head held regally high, “if you were to accidently find the basement key located in a hidden compartment to the right side of the door, then I couldn’t stop you, could I?”

**

Rat smiled at Skeeter, showcasing narrow front teeth. Seventeen-years-old, severely malnutritioned body accentuated by long greasy hair and baggy clothing, Rat was the epitome of adolescent coolness. For a generation filled with despair, Rat signified everything that was the antithesis of the Baby Boomers, and this made him infinitely appealing in Skeeter’s eyes.

The Doomers, as this young generation was becoming k
nown, resented their parents’ yuppie values. For the first time ever, a generation held little hope of surpassing the current standard of living, nor even the expectation of coming close.

Many
saw their future as unpromising. Too many people vying for too few jobs, expensive college degrees which held no guarantee of employment. Enormous competition waited: not only from their peers but of a massive influx of aggressively-educated Asian immigrants, plus the slightly older Generation-X’ers and, more irritatingly, experienced Boomers who’d been downsized from the economy. A staggering populous vying for a diminishing number of good paying jobs.

By the very nature of their relationship to other demographic
groups, Doomers are all too aware of their impending fate, which makes the inevitable harder to bear. Raised in excess, feted at holidays with an overload of material abundance, they never learned the value of waiting for fulfilment nor the satisfaction borne of earning something by one’s self. Instant gratification was the norm.

What’s a kid to do? If he’s rebellious
, like a legion of other teenagers since the beginning of time, with hormones raging and mind filled with millions of violent images garnered from watching too much television, the Doomer seeks a new avenue, a path so different it’s guaranteed to knock his parental unit’s socks off. A tough mission when his folk’s own youthful rebellion included recreational drugs and recreational sex and recreational body piercing. So what’s left?

The last taboo. Satan. The Devil. Lucifer.

So, they join their peers on the marathon of hate, and worship a leader who tells them if they can’t have it all, then fuck it. They wear t-shirts intended to offend, with slogans proclaiming ‘
Say you love Satan,’
and
‘Beware of God,’
and ‘
The Lord is an Asshole,’
or even,
‘I am the God of All Fuck.’
The truly sublime might sport a nattily inked, simplistic yet highly effective
‘Fuck!’
It says it all. Perfect.

Who’s going to argue their right to freedom of speech? Not their parents, who refuse to deny them anything. Not their teachers, who are powerless to discipline. Certainly not their peers.

The Doomers turn to their music: heavy-metal and rap, which, unlike the bogus rebel posturing of their Boomer parents, these musicians really mean it. They tote guns, get arrested at airports and make headlines with drug-related offenses. They get shot at in drive-bys. They also include necessary theatrics like wiping their ass with a Bible on stage while chanting pearls of wisdom such as
‘We will no longer be repressed by the fascism of Christian morality’.

The Doomers excel at videogames that herald violence and attribute God-like qualities to mere mortals. Their movies and literature run to the occult or supernatural, or high-octane blood
-and-guts thrillers. Even traditional horror staples, like vampires, werewolves and zombies are now playing the sexy, romantic lead. TV, DVD’s and the Cineplex all contribute to the deluge of violent imagery sponged by the hungry young mind. This generation also has access to the world-wide-web of information, from pornography to suicide instructions to how to make your own bomb. It’s irrelevant if Mummy and Daddy have taken the precaution to monitor the Doomer’s media intake. There are plenty of friends and libraries and Internet cafes to download whatever takes his fancy. Is it any wonder the little darlings are jaded?

So when Skeeter saw Rat’s rather frightening smile, he didn’t see the dirty hair or the filthy clothes. He didn’t consciously register the flicking of the cigarette ashes onto Marvelwork’s floor, nor the slogan on Rat’s t-shirt which proclaimed, ‘
We hate love, we love hate
’. Skeeter saw a figure which represented peer acceptance. A figure which took him away from his problems, real and imagined, and provided a gateway to make them disappear. And if Skeeter realized this was an illusion, he really didn’t care. Because if the illusion of happiness got him through the day, then, like the rest of the Doomers, he was happy to grab that. And, like every other human being on earth, regardless of age, sex or color, he was happy to belong.

**

The basement door in the Vandercamp house opened to reveal a narrow staircase that spiralled downwards to a dark labyrinth of halls and rooms. The purpose of some of these rooms was obvious: workshop, storage, wine cellar. Others were not so easily identifiable. “They’re like cells,” one of the officers remarked. Carmichael frowned, examining a dreary room. “That’s exactly what they’re like. Why would someone keep rooms like this?”

“Somewhere for the in-laws to sleep?” one officer suggested.

They counted six cell-rooms in all. Four had bunks, two sets a piece. Other than that, they were depressingly bare save for a rudimentary toilet and sink. Two rooms simply had a mattress on the floor and no toilet. Jake wrinkled his nose. “Smells like an outhouse.”

“Yeah, I noticed that. This reminds me of something I saw in Mississippi one time. We were visiting an
old plantation. These are like slave quarters.”

“Only there was never slavery in this part of the world.”

“True. Plus, this house isn’t antebellum.” Carmichael turned and left the room. “Vandercamp’s explanation should be interesting. No doubt he’ll come up with something plausible.”

“No doubt.”

“Okay, boys,” Carmichael stated. “I’ve seen enough. Let’s search the rest of the house.”

The mansion was clean, holding no further clues. For the next two hours they searched, and Jake grew more despondent as the minutes ticke
d by with no sign of Amy... and no sign of Gil Vandercamp. Suzanne, too, had seemingly disappeared. “You wouldn’t think the woman would leave her house while police are crawling all over it.”

“Maybe she had something more important to do.”

“Like what? Yoga class?” Jake scoffed.

“No, something that involves a bit more exercise. Like fleeing the country. What’s the phone number for Marvelworks?”
Carmichael punched the numbers into his cell phone. “This is Sergeant Benjamin Carmichael,” he said, his Scottish-drawl becoming more pronounced. “Put me through to Gil Vandercamp immediately. It’s urgent... Damn!”

“What’s up?”

“Lover-boy has left the office for the day. My bet he’s already met up with his wife and son and gone into hiding.”

Jake frowned. He’d been looking forward to a confrontation with Gil, to smashing his fist again in the bastard’s smug face. He was surprised at his own lust for violence, for revenge. But
when it came to protecting his loved ones, Jake would gleefully kill. “No time to get far – they’re probably at the ferry terminal, waiting for the next sailing.”

The Sergeant shook his head ruefully. “Wrong. There’s a hundred ways off this island and the main ferry is likely to attract only tourists. A man of Vandercamp’s
resources will have his own boat or plane. He could easily be on the mainland or Washington State or halfway to Hawaii by now.”

“He does have his own boat... a yacht. It’s moored to a dock out back. It’s still there, I saw it.”

“You’re grasping at straws, Jake. Vandercamp won’t use his own vessel – too traceable. No, he’ll be holing up on someone else’s, and on a beautiful late autumn day like this there are literally thousands of boats on the water. No way could we check them all.”

“But –”

Benny put his hand on Jake’s shoulders. “If Vandercamp truly is a cult leader, then he’ll have dozens – no, hundreds – of direct followers clamoring to help him. Followers fanatic enough to do anything for him, even die for him.

Jake turned to Carmichael, his expressio
n steely. “What are you saying? There’s nothing you can do?”

The sergeant shook his head. “Oh, there’s lots we can do, and we will do it. Put out an APB, guard the airports, the marinas, the ferry terminals, the bus stations. Probably won’t help, though. If Vandercamp doesn’t want to be found, he won’t be. At least until he eliminates all incriminating evidence.”

“You mean Amy.”

The sergeant didn’t reply, his expression answer enough.

**

Cari scrubbed her kitchen sink viciously. It didn’t need cleaning but it gave Cari something to do. She banged one knuckle sharply on the faucet, hard enough to tear the skin
. “Damn!” she cursed, sitting down. She saw Daisy looking at her. “Sorry, old pal. That’s no way for a lady to talk, is it?” Daisy thumped her tail appreciatively.

After yesterday’s dead cat escapade
, Cari reluctantly decided to close the bookstore, at least for a few days. It went against the grain to copout like this but after careful deliberation it seemed the wisest course of action. She wasn’t dealing with schoolyard bullies here. Anyone sick enough to kill a cat was sick enough to cause her or Ramona bodily harm. And while closing down her store during the pre-Christmas season might appear slightly paranoid to some, Cari demurred. She also needed time to think.

Amy was gone. She knew that without hearing it from Jake. Felt it deep in her bones. To be sure she tried going into a trance to seek the girl and when that failed Cari loo
ked deep into her glass fishing ball. Nothing. She tried a dozen other things, including prayer
. “Please, Great Mother, please don’t let her be dead.”
Cari cradled her bruised knuckle. She had a feeling the Goddess was ignoring her.

How could she face Jake? He had wanted to search the Vandercamp household last night and Cari, like the others, had convinced him to wait until morning. Last night she’d felt certain that immediate action would lead to bloodshed, but now, she wasn’t so sure.

Daisy whined and Cari looked up. “You’re right, old gal. No use in second-guessing myself, is there? But I’ve got to do something... anything. If I don’t, I’ll go stark-raving mad.” Daisy woofed softly. “Oh, I get it. You think I should rub your belly, is that it? Clever dog.” Cari bent and knelt beside the dog. A moment later a crash and a whir, occurring simultaneously. Glass rained down on Cari’s head and she covered herself with her hands.

Daisy was barking agitatedly. Cari had to physically restrain the dog from jumping up. “Down girl, shhh. It’s not safe.”

A full minute ticked by before Cari carefully sat up, shaking the glass from her hair. Taking care to remain invisible to the street, she crawled across her kitchen floor to investigate. Daisy stayed in her corner, as her mistress ordered, clearly unhappy. “Shhh, Daisy,” Cari whispered. She had reached the front window. The large glass pane had imploded, spraying glass in a wide radius. “Lovely,” she mumbled. She retraced her path to the opposite side of the kitchen. A shattered vase lay on the floor. Behind where it previously stood, lodged in the plaster wall, was a bullet.

Looking back at the window and then again at the vase, Cari came to an awful conc
lusion. Directly between the two, in the line of fire, had been her head. This was no accidental drive by. Those lousy bastards had taken a shot at her. They’d tried to kill her. If she hadn’t lowered her head to pet Daisy then she wouldn’t be alive.