Tribe (23 page)

Janice knew very well about whom he was talking. “I'm presuming you're referring to the same jerk who broke into my home, assaulted me, and kidnapped Ribka last night.”

“Janice, please, you put things in such dramatic terms.”

“You were in on it too, weren't you?”

“I don't know what you're talking about.”

“Of course you do. Where were you, waiting in the car, something like that? Too much of a sissy even to come right to my front door?”

“No, I can honestly say that I had nothing to do with it, that I was back at my hotel. Unfortunately, however, I have to also tell you that neither this fellow nor I now has the child. That's the sad truth.”

“What?” she nearly shouted.

Janice studied Pat, whose face was flat and nearly void of expression. And as much as she didn't want to, she believed him. So, she realized, if they didn't have the baby then somehow Zeb did. Or at least she hoped to God he did.

“I don't quite understand what's going on,” said Janice, steeling herself and trying her lawyerly best not to show her fear. “But let me tell you, if you or this thug of yours so much as lays a finger on my son or my granddaughter, I'm going to have a whole squad of dykes on bikes and a platoon of leather fags hunt you both down and beat the shit out of you. Am I clear?”

He studied her, then said, “Haven't you always been, Janice?”

And before he could see how much she was shaking, Janice hurried out, fleeing into the brilliant winter day.

This was ridiculous, waiting
around like this in the snow, freezing his rear, not to mention his feet. His gun bouncing in the pocket of his wool coat, Paul paced back and forth near the bus stop on France Avenue and tried his best to look as if he were waiting for a bus. Instead, he was peering down the block at one specific car: Zeb's. Buried nearly up to the hood in snow, there was no way anyone was driving that vehicle anywhere, at least not in the near future. Which was why Rick felt comfortable leaving Paul out here while he took off to meet with that woman.

“We might as well face it, Zeb's not going to come freely with us,” Rick had said earlier this morning. “So maybe I can convince Janice to come back with me. And then maybe we can use her to lure Zeb either back to her house or somewhere where we can get our hands on Ribka.”

But that was stupid, thought Paul, his arms wrapped around his thick chest. Zeb was inside this minister's house. Zeb had the baby. That was why they'd come all the way out here to this ghastly, freezing place. To rescue Ribka. To return her to The Congregation where love and godly attention would cure her ailment. All they had to do was go right up to the house, force their way in, and settle this. All the talk, it was pointless. Inane. Paul could take care of it in minutes.

Something moved up the street and Paul glanced toward the church. A couple of kids were pulling orange plastic sleds through the deep snow, and someone else was moving toward Zeb's car. Paul tensed and shrank back behind a tree. It was Zeb. Tall and young and lean. And devil-possessed. That young punk had caused so much trouble. What a pain. What a fringer. But Paul knew how to take care of him and his bad attitude.

Paul surveyed the situation and noted that Zeb had no child with him. So what was that idiot going to do, try and dig his way out? If so, he was even stupider than Paul guessed, for these side streets hadn't been plowed at all.

Instead of taking a shovel and going to work, however, Paul watched as Zeb went to the vehicle, brushed off the driver's side, pulled open the door, and leaned in. A minute later he re-emerged holding a car seat and then headed back to the small house.

Oh, this was worldly. Zeb wasn't going somewhere in another car, was he? He supposed that Zeb could be using the car seat inside, just for something in which to sit the baby, but that wasn't a safe guess. Paul had to assume the worst. And if Paul let Zeb and Ribka get away again, well, then he'd be laughed right out of The Congregation. He glanced up and down France Avenue. Rick was nearly as stupid as his kid. He should never have left. Zeb and Ribka were both right there, right in that house just a short block away. So who knew what was going to happen next? After all, Zeb could have done something crazy like contacted the police.

There was no way Paul was going to stand idly by waiting for Rick to show up. Who knew how long his little pancake breakfast would take. Besides, he could have run into trouble with that lady. So, knowing what he had to do, Paul pulled up the collar of his coat, bent his head forward, then slipped his hand into his right coat pocket and wrapped his gloved hand around the butt of his pistol. Enough with all this crap.

Paul stomped through the deep snow, his head bowed low. His immediate concern was this person Zeb was staying with, and hopefully it was in fact just one person living in that house—a minister or caretaker—because an entire family would pose a problem. So how was he going to do this? The front door was out of the question. Much too direct. Paul knew that now, right in the middle of the day with two people in that small house, was not the time to break in through a side door or window. No, he'd just have to take things a little more carefully. First he'd circle around the church, scope out the alley. And then? Then he would look for a heavenly sign.

“Now,
you're sure about this?” asked the minister, seated on the edge of the piano bench. “You know, you're welcome to stay as long as you need to. No rush.”

Seated in a rocking chair in the living room, Zeb nodded. This guy was nice and everything. He'd given them a place to stay, after all. He'd kept little Ribka—who was sleeping soundly on a blanket in the middle of the floor—and him from freezing to death in the storm. But Zeb just didn't want to be here. Mark wasn't like Suzanne's father, that supposed Apostle of Apostles, who always kept poking and prodding, asking questions and demanding explanations. This guy was definitely lower key, but still he kept looking at Zeb with inquisitive eyes, obviously wanting to know the who, what, and why of Zeb and his baby girl. And Zeb didn't like it. Enough of this church junk. After all, everyone at The Congregation had seemed real friendly and all when he'd first returned there three years ago, but then slowly, surely, they sort of tightened on him. Constricted like a snake or something.

“If you think your Blazer can make it through this,” replied Zeb, “then that would be great.”

“Oh, I'm the minister with four-wheel drive, who can get through anything to anyone. That's not a problem at all. Rain or shine, snow or freezing temps, I can get there.”

“Great. I'm sure our staying here is kind of a pain.”

“Don't worry about that. I mean, isn't this what church ministers are supposed to do, shelter the weary?”

“Well, I just think Ribka will be more comfortable in…in her own place,” lied Zeb. “I'll come back for my car once I get Ribka settled and once the roads are clear.”

“I see.” Mark rubbed his hands together in a slow, pensive manor. “And you spoke to your wife last night?”

“Right. I called her. Sorry, I forgot to say thanks.”

“Everything fine?”

“Sure. Sure, of course.”

“Okay, then,” said Mark, rising, “I'll go get my car started. It's back in the garage.”

“Do you need help?”

“No, just give me a few minutes to get the engine warmed up.” Mark got up and reached for the car seat, which sat on the floor by the front door. “I'll take this out.”

“Great. I'll start getting her ready.”

Listening as Mark disappeared into the kitchen, put on his boots, and zipped up his coat, Zeb hardly moved. Only when Mark went out the back door did he huff a breath of relief. Maybe he'd get out of here with no problem after all.

Above
the roar of at least two or three snowblowers down the block, Paul heard the back door open and immediately flattened himself against the side of the garage. He leaned forward just a bit and, peering around the corner of the tiny building, caught a glimpse of a tall, thin man stepping through the deep snow and carrying a baby's car seat. It had to be the guy who'd taken in Zeb and Ribka, and it was immediately clear that he was intending to drive them somewhere.

Over my dead body, thought Paul.

He stood quite still, listening as the guy progressed through the deep snow. Then Paul heard a jangling of keys, a door opening, and the hum of a garage door as it was electrically hoisted upward. It was all too clear, he realized.

Not wasting a moment, he moved quickly along the building, slipping around the corner and right into the open garage. As the other man opened the driver's door, Paul rushed alongside the vehicle.

Hurrying forward and pressing his pistol at the back of the man's head, Paul calmly said, “Just be quiet and move away from the car.”

“What?”

“Keep your voice down and move back,” instructed Paul, pulling the man to the end of the car.

“I…I…”

“What' s your name?''

“M-Mark.”

“Okay, Mark, I don't want to hurt you. Just tell me where the kid is.”

“Zeb?”

“That's right. Where is he?” demanded Paul, holding the other man firmly from behind.

“In the living…living room.”

“And the baby's in there too?”

“Yes. What kind of trouble is he—”

“Shut up. Is there anyone else in there?”

“No. No one.” Mark was quick to add, “Listen, maybe…maybe I can help you.”

“I'm not in need of help. The baby is. That's why I'm here.”

“Okay. I see,” said the minister, turning around slowly. “There's just no need to—”

“You don't listen very well.”

“We can talk. Work this out. If you have a—”

“I said be quiet.”

“Yes, but—”

The talkative type. Paul hated them. And he had no time for antics like this that might keep him from Ribka, so he brought back the pistol and clubbed the minister on the back of the head. With one swift blow to the skull, Paul knocked out Mark, who crumpled downward.

Paul eased the body down to the cement floor of the garage. “Too bad you don't belong to the true church.”

Working quickly lest he be seen by any snoopy neighbors, Paul hurried to the wall and pushed the button. Now, he thought as the garage door rattled shut, onto the next.

If
he were smart, thought Zeb, and if he had any sense of design, he'd come up with a whole new style of winter clothes for kids. The neighbor lady had brought over an old snowsuit for Ribka, but how could anybody make anything as difficult to put on as this nylon outfit with its awkward zippers, the stubby little arms, and the separate hat and mittens? He was on the living room floor nearly wrestling with his baby as he tried to get her properly bundled up, and all he could think of was how impossible this was. Trying to move Ribka's arm into one of the sleeves, he cooed and smiled at her. But that didn't help. And she let out a howl.

“Oh, come on, Ribka. I know this is hard.”

Her arms started shaking and quivering. Zeb stopped. Okay, okay, he thought, taking a deep breath. Just be patient. And get her pacifier. That'd help, that'd give her something to do while he tried to get her dressed. He glanced around—but where was it? He felt his shirt pocket. Checked all around the baby blanket. Sure, the kitchen. He'd fed her not too long ago and she'd been sucking on the pacifier while he heated her bottle.

“I'll be right back, little girl.”

Cutting through the dining room, he dashed into the kitchen, a small room with a low table by the rear window. The pacifier, however, was nowhere to be seen, and Zeb grabbed at his short hair, wanted to pull it right out of his head as he looked around the kitchen. Where the hell was it? The bedroom? Had he left it in there by chance? Quite possibly, and he started to dash off. Just as quickly, though, he stopped. Maybe he didn't need to be rushing like this. Maybe Mark was going to have to do a fair amount of shoveling just to get his car out of the garage. In which case the last thing Zeb wanted to do was get Ribka bundled up and then have her sit around and get all hot. Turning back around, Zeb crossed quickly through the kitchen and went right up to the back door.

Paul
heard steps from within the house and froze, pressing himself against the outer wall. Okay, he thought with a grin, it would be only too perfect if Zeb just came out here, the baby cradled in his arms. He pictured himself just standing there as Zeb walked out. Praise Jehovah, he would say, for delivering the infant unto me.

A few seconds later, though, it was clear that wasn't going to happen. Oh, the baby was in there, right inside that house. Paul could hear her crying—a real wailer, that one. He waited a moment longer, and when he was sure Zeb wasn't on the way out, he clutched the gun in his right pocket and moved toward the back door. As quietly as possible he climbed the three outside steps, placed his hand on the doorknob, and turned it. Very good. It was unlocked, and he pushed, feeling the door swing easily. In one quick movement he shoved the door all the way open, pulled out his gun, and stepped inside.

The small kitchen, though, was empty. Paul eased the door shut behind him, stood there, trying to discern footsteps or any other movement. What he heard instead were not the sounds of a crying baby, but those of a baby laughing and cooing. And some faint music. Paul took several careful steps, moving toward a door that led into the rest of the house. Reaching the edge of that passage, he paused again. Yes, the child was here somewhere. He could hear her, hear what sounded like Zeb trying to calm her. This, realized Paul, was going to be pathetically easy.