Keeper of the Children Page 4

  The dolls hung in the darkness: a furtive crowd, holding themselves still and silent, with barely concealed smirks. Dolls—just dolls. Marionettes with strings, a girl’s collection, clowns and princes, lions and giraffes, crowned toads and angels and even, at the end of a row, a plump scarecrow and next to it a skeleton. Hanging there in the dark, in the middle of the night, had they laughed? He shook his head at them.

  For beyond the dolls’ laughter, he had felt another presence. Someone standing in the hallway looking in at him as he was sleeping.

  A swishing sound in the hallway made him turn suddenly. A barely discernible figure stood in the hallway, something white. Quickly he put the light on and saw his wife. She gasped.

  “I didn’t know you were in there,” she said.

  “What got you up?”

  “I thought someone was in the house. Standing here in the hallway. It’s cold here.”

  He stood next to her, fanning a hand.

  “It’s a draft, Sue.”

  “No. It’s not a draft. It’s like—cold, dead air.”

  CHAPTER 3

  A fine drizzle was falling. Eddie Benson, Professor Hawthorn and Dr. Sing sat by the windows running with rainwater in Custis’s office. They waited for the Garmans.

  On the table before them lay the morning newspaper, sprawled like a fallen banner. The story of Custis’s death was on the front page.

  Benson looked around the office. It was just as it had been the day before, when he’d first met Custis: the scattered model homes looking collectively like a disaster area, the piles of papers—everything the same except for the absent Custis with his desk-pounding fists, his clenched anger and vitality.

  Without his presence, his office had the quality of a stage abandoned after the last performance.

  Benson realized with astonishment that he’d landed at the airport less than twenty-four hours ago.

  The three men had been sitting in a prolonged, numbed silence, heads bowed as in sleep.

  Professor Hawthorn roused himself first. “Who’s got the ball?”

  Dr. Sing said, “We’re waiting for the Garmans.”

  “Right. Quite right.” He resumed staring at the table.

  “No, it didn’t,” said Benson.

  “Pardon?”

  “It didn’t happen. I’ve thought it out and decided that what we thought we saw didn’t happen.”

  “You know—” Dr. Sing said. “How can I phrase this? If what I saw last night really happened as I saw it, then it is as though our shabby little three-dimensional world suddenly developed a crack in it and we looked into another world entirely.”

  “Well,” said Benson, “if we didn’t see what we think we saw, how else can you explain it?”

  “I can’t,” said Professor Hawthorn. “And that makes me very unhappy. Can you?”

  “It might have been a trick,” said Benson, “but I can’t explain it.”

  “Enough.” Dr. Sing sat up. “We have to regather our forces. What do you think we should do now?”

  Professor Hawthorn shrugged. “Continue.”

  “Same plan?”

  “Why not? It’s still the only move on the board for us, isn’t it? We have more than enough evidence to get this man deported. Let’s continue.”

  “Without Ken, that’s hard.”

  Professor Hawthorn nodded sadly.

  “There were times,” mused Dr. Sing, “when the only thing that kept us from disbanding and going home was the sound of his voice. He would not be stopped. If Kheim was going to kill just one of us, he could not have chosen better.” He turned to Professor Hawthorn. “We have to get our report to Washington.”

  “Yes.”

  “Why don’t you just put a copy in the mail?” asked Benson.

  “No,” said Professor Hawthorn. “There are tens of thousands of illegal aliens in the country. The government has practically thrown its hands up over the situation. To get Kheim deported, we have to bring great pressure on Washington-even with overwhelming proof. I’m sure Kheim knows this, Mr. Benson. Without us, he’s safe.”

  Dr. Sing shrugged. “It would pay him to kill the whole committee.” He began to gather his papers.

  “Let’s give the Garmans a few more minutes,” said the professor.

  “Is that your daughter I saw?” asked Benson. “Chinese girl with long black hair?”

  “Yes. My daughter, Kim.”

  “Kim?”

  “Her name is Jade Ling Sing. Her friends call her Kim.”

  “She’s very beautiful.”

  Dr. Sing bowed his head graciously. “She’s also very foolish. The great earth mother of China, my wife calls her. Kim wants to mother everything. My apartment was stuffed with plants and guppies and puppies and kittens, mice, rats, birds. It looked like Mother Nature’s own nursery. Ah, what a cruel thing to do, preying on the foolish idealism of children. My wife mourns for her constantly.”

  “Is she the only one?”

  “Oh, no. I have two sons. Both in M.I.T. Electronic engineering, like me.”

  “Maybe we should keep our faith a little longer,” said Benson.

  Dr. Sing smiled at Professor Hawthorn. “I think we’ve found a replacement for Ken Custis.”

  “No. Courage isn’t my stock in trade. Conniving is. And we’re up against a conniver. It takes one to know one.”

  Benson looked from the smooth and ageless face of Dr. Sing to Professor Hawthorn’s tired, middle-aged face. “I don’t know how it happened last night—how that scarecrow was tricked up to commit murder—but I’m sure I know who was responsible. Kheim.”

  Professor Hawthorn said, “If that’s true, it’s the first time we’ve gotten a reaction from Kheim. That tells me he’s vulnerable. So, we should continue.”

  “It also means he goes for the guy who has the ball,” said Benson. “Whoever tries to deliver that report to the government will be his next target.”

  “Good news. Bad news,” said Dr. Sing.

  Finally, Professor Hawthorn spoke again. “This is called belling the cat, which is exactly what’s needed. Who’ll do it? Who’ll deliver the report to Washington?”

  The office door opened, and in the doorway stood Mrs. Cecelia Garman, Pammy’s mother, wearing an expensive fur jacket. She stepped tentatively into the room on her thin legs, part of the hem of her skirt hanging down. She was wearing huge tinted glasses that failed to conceal a bruise around her left eye. Behind her, in a houndstooth jacket, was her husband, scowling at all of them.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “Are we late?”

  “Good morning,” said Professor Hawthorn. “Come in.”

  “Any new development?” asked Mrs. Garman.

  Professor Hawthorn shook his head. “No. Not since I called you.”

  Mrs. Garman nodded. “Here, Harry. Sit there.” He didn’t. “Dr. Sing. How nice to see you.” She put an oversize leather handbag on the table, sat and began groping for her cigarettes. “Imagine. A scarecrow. And those little broomstick footprints. Oh.” She shuddered.

  “If that was supposed to scare us,” said Harry Garman, “it worked.” A thin man with a tiny moustache, he spoke in a clear, South Philadelphia accent. A network of broken veins covered his nose and cheeks like encroaching illness. “I’m scared. And I don’t scare easily, let me tell you. But I never heard of anything so weird in my whole goddam life.”

  “Harry doesn’t like spooky things.”

  Her husband gave her a sour look. “Harry doesn’t like spooky things.”

  “Well, you don’t.” Mrs. Garman lit a cigarette with a lighter. Her hand shook, and when she exhaled, the odor of stale gin accompanied the smoke across the table.

  “Have you met Mr. Benson?” asked Professor Hawthorn.

  “Oh. Renni’s father? Oh. Vaguely, yes.”

  Benson could now see that the eyelid itself was purple and swollen. It recalled many of Pammy’s unexplained bruises. “I don’t believe we’ve ever actually met,” he
said pointedly. “Have we?”

  She asked her husband, “Doesn’t he look like Renni?”

  “No,” said Garman, “we’ve never met.”

  “Well,” said Mrs. Garman. “What shall we do?”

  Professor Hawthorn, resting his face on a propped fist, looked at her and then nodded. “Yes, that is really the only question, isn’t it? What to do.”

  “First,” said Harry Garman, “don’t we have to find out if that bastard Kheim is behind this?”

  Professor Hawthorn said, “Well, let’s suppose Kheim is responsible. Now what?”

  Benson looked around the table. A smart clap of the hands would have sent them in heedless flight, himself included.

  “Oh, why don’t they just come home?” asked Garman.

  “All I know is, something is holding my Pammy there.” Mrs. Garman looked pointedly at Benson.

  “We all know what’s holding your Pammy there,” said her husband.

  Mrs. Garman rummaged again in her handbag and slapped a fresh package of cigarettes on the table. “My Pammy’s a good girl! She’s had an unhappy life.” She looked at her husband, her mouth angry and bunched. “A very unhappy life.”

  “Well,” said Dr. Sing. “Anyone have any concrete suggestions? No? Well, I’ll make one. I say we ought to do what Custis planned to do today—get our report to the Department of Justice. If you wish, I’ll become chairman of this enormous group and see what I can get started.” He smiled wanly. “We’ll intimidate them by sheer numbers.”

  “Where’s the rest of the committee?” asked Benson.

  “You’re looking at it,” said Garman.

  “All? You mean none of the other parents have joined?”

  “A few are completely indifferent,” said Hawthorn. “Maybe they’re even glad to be rid of their children. But most of the others are afraid Kheim will take some kind of reprisals against their children if they fight him. Most of them believe he uses some kind of mind control.”

  “Aren’t they doing anything at all?” said Benson. “Apathy won’t get their children back.”

  Dr. Sing said, “Well, Mr. Benson, you’ll get no argument from those present. So, to put a period on it, I’m volunteering to carry the report to the government.”

  “I’ll go with you,” said Benson.

  “I’d like that. But I think I should go alone. Let them think I represent a lot of people. All the parents, in fact. Agreed?” He smiled at them. “No one is going to discourage me from taking this load off your backs? Well then, full of fear and trepidation, I’m officially replacing Ken Custis as your chairman. God rest his soul. And maybe mine.”

  Professor Hawthorn struggled upright from his slouch. “Dr. Sing, I think there must be a safer way.”

  “Oh? What did you have in mind?”

  “I haven’t anything in mind, but I feel you’ll be risking your life.”

  “As an Oriental dealing with an Oriental, I may have some ways of handling Kheim. Mr. Benson said it—it takes one to know one.”

  “You mean you have some kind of a plan to protect yourself?”

  “Yes. A little game of Chinese checkers. I believe I can get this report in the right hands within twenty-four hours while protecting myself from Kheim.”

  “How sure are you?”

  “Well—reasonably sure. We must have the courage of our convictions.”

  Mrs. Garman looked at him through a haze of cigarette smoke. “It is a test of courage, isn’t it?” She sat back and murmured unhappily, “We aren’t any of us safe, are we, my dears?”

  Garman drummed his nails on the desk. “Goddam Pammy.”

  When Benson came out of Custis’s office building, there was a soft drizzle falling, and the Garmans were standing in the middle of the sidewalk. Mrs. Garman was struggling with her large handbag, groping for a collapsible umbrella. Harry Garman watched her with disgust. When at last she got the umbrella up, one of the finials was missing and a metal rib stuck out.

  When Garman saw him he said, “How about a beer or a cup of coffee? We want to talk to you.”

  Benson glanced at his watch. “Okay.”

  Dinty’s staff was getting ready for the lunch traffic. Behind the bar the chef was cutting long, narrow slices from the top of a roast beef. His assistant was stacking steamer buns inside a bread warmer while one of the bartenders swept out. The odor of the roast beef and beer filled the air.

  The Garmans walked to a back booth and ordered martinis. Benson sat down next to Mrs. Garman. Even in the dark booth, her bruised eye showed. The two of them crouched over their drinks as though they were hiding.

  “We can’t fight this thing, Benson,” said Garman. “We’re leaving.”

  “Leaving? Where are you going?”

  “Far away.”

  “Okay.”

  “Don’t you have anything to say, Benson?”

  Benson shook his head.

  Mrs. Garman said, “Kheim’s involved in Ken Custis’s murder, wouldn’t you say?”

  “I would say.”

  “Then we could get it, or Dr. Sing, or Professor Hawthorn—or you. All of us. Wouldn’t you say.”

  Benson nodded.

  “Well,” demanded Garman, “what are you going to do about it?”

  “I don’t know yet. I just got here.”

  Garman waggled his empty glass at the bartender. “You drinking, Benson?”

  “No. What about Pammy?”

  “Well, what about her? Look, Benson, we have no guarantee that these kids will come home even if they shoot that monk to the moon. Pammy got herself into this mess and we can’t get her out. Besides, you’ve seen her. She’s having the time of her life.”

  “What about Renni?” asked Mrs. Garman. “Don’t you still want her back?”

  “When are you leaving?” Benson asked.

  “Now. We’re going to pack and get the next flight to Bermuda. We could use a vacation anyway.”

  “Do you still want Renni back?” asked Mrs. Garman again. “She’s a very nice girl.” She sat with her clenched hands pressing into her lap as though she were shivering with cold. Her hair needed combing.

  “Thank you,” said Benson. “What about the deportation proceedings? Dr. Sing is going to deliver that report today.”

  “Benson, you have to be crazy. If you hang around, you’re going to get killed. And you’re not going to help your kid. Custis is dead. We’re leaving. Hawthorn’s flying back to his Indian dig in Arizona—”

  “Is he?”

  “He didn’t tell you? Sure. It’s only for a couple of days, he says. Weeks, it’ll be. If Sing gets it, you’ll be all alone in town.”

  “We all need to find some way to protect ourselves,” said Mrs. Garman.

  “From what?” Garman demanded. “What is it? Is it even human? Protect ourselves—Jesus.” He shifted irritably in the booth and lit a cigarette. “We’re going to have to leave in a minute.”

  “Bermuda,” said Mrs. Garman.

  “You have a copy of that report?” Benson asked Garman.

  “Forget it, Benson. That report will get you a funeral. Don’t you get the message yet? It’s time for a vacation. A long one.”

  “Mr. Custis had a copy and Dr. Sing had a copy,” said Mrs. Garman. “I think that was all—two copies.”

  “Listen,” said Garman. “While you’re playing around trying to get the federal government to move on this, months could go by. Or years! And where are you meantime? Yeah. Right in the grave.” He shook the ice in his glass. “This isn’t my line of country. We’re not going to get that brat back home anyway. And if we did, she’d only go off someplace else. Pack it in. Call it a day. Now, if you’ll excuse us.” He stood up.

  Garman’s wife watched him without moving. “What are you going to do, Mr. Benson?” she asked.

  “I’m not ready to quit yet.”

  “You’ve got shit for brains,” said Garman.

  Mrs. Garman asked, “Do you think you can get Renni home?
”

  “I’m going to try.”

  “Come on,” said Garman.

  She frowned at her hands in her lap. “I’m not going.”

  Garman was astonished. “Ha? Are you crazy, Cecelia?”

  “No. I can’t go.”

  “Why, for God’s sake! What do you mean you can’t go? We have to go.”

  “I just can’t.”

  “Why? Tell me why.”

  “I can’t help Pammy in Bermuda.”

  “You can’t help Pammy anywhere. If you stay here—”

  “How do you think you can get her back?” Mrs. Garman asked Benson.

  Garman nodded at her. “You know where I’ll be.” As he strode out of the barroom, Mrs. Garman excused herself and hurried toward the ladies’ room.

  “Leave,” said Garman from the doorway. “Go somewhere safe. And don’t touch that report. It may already be too late.” A moment later he stepped out into the rain and the saloon door swung shut.

  Benson thought about Africa.

  The conga drum echoed in the street, distant, intermittently muffled by the sounds of traffic, and growing fainter. The procession was moving away from him, down some side street. Benson had turned into Independence Square and followed the path under the bare trees. In the cold drizzle, the half-light coming through the budding trees was washed in green. He walked in a pale green mist. Instinctively, he thought of camera angles to catch that strange color.

  And then, amidst the street noises—the beating windshield wipers and the auto tires on the wet roadway and the shuffle of shoes on wet concrete—he heard again the sound of the conga drum, suddenly closer.

  He saw them: orange smudges stringing down Seventh Street, past Carpenter’s Hall, stepping around puddles and moving rapidly toward Walnut. They seemed to be centering around the tall drummer, Custis’s son. At his side walked the lovely Chinese girl, Kim Sing, and at his other side one of the girls with a baby on her back. Pammy Garman hurried ahead, holding a boy’s hand as they trotted diagonally across the street to a group of people in front of an office entrance. “Peace,” he heard them say, “Love,” as they held forth their bowls. “Feed the starving children.” Pammy giggled and drew damp strands of hair from her face.