Keeper of the Children Page 6

The group moved out of sight, out of earshot as the drum died out. So she had another drink to keep from being a weepy drunk bitch, as her husband would have it. Finally the barman having refused to serve her anymore, she went to a movie and fell asleep. When she woke a man had his hand inside her blouse and she stood and straggled away from him, still in a daze. At least she was relatively sober. She went to a hotel restaurant next to the train station, ordered some food and forced herself to eat it. She praised herself for not drinking with her meal.

  Then she took the Main Line train to Radnor. She found the family car there where Harry had left it and drove to the house. Home, alone: no fight tonight.

  The cat hurried up to her and complained; her fur was up and she seemed disturbed.

  Cecelia Garman got out a bottle of gin and some ice and turned on all the lights in the house. She decided to have a good cry—get it all out, be glad he’s gone—and go from there. … “She’s got another goddam crying jag on,” she could hear him saying. But she sat down and wept anyway and had a drink. Yet when she finished, it hadn’t helped. Her throat ached, and her spirits were even lower. She went into the bathroom upstairs and looked at the oval tub, then to her desk, where she looked at her notepaper, then back to the tub. She stared at it for a long time, taking sips from her glass of gin.

  She returned to her desk and started writing a note.

  Chinatown was not very far from Benson’s office.

  Troubled by Dr. Sing’s silence, he dialed the telephone number. There was no answer. And so, even though it was late when he left his office, Benson decided to call on Dr. Sing before going home. He walked directly up Eighth Street to Race.

  He found Sing’s apartment above Wah’s Chinese Grocery Store. It was dark and there was no answer to the doorbell. He stepped into the tiny store. It was crowded with customers and four young men working behind the counter.

  “Dr. Sing?” he asked, pointing above.

  “Dr. Sing?” The young man looked doubtfully at him.

  “I was supposed to hear from him today, but he never called me. Do you know if he’s all right?”

  The young man nodded. “Come this way, please.”

  Benson followed him to the back of the store, past shelves of inventory to an old wooden staircase that led down to the basement. The steps were dished from wear and age.

  The basement, constructed in the colonial days of the city with low stone arches, was paved with Belgian cobblestones used as ballast in sailing ships. Old grocery equipment and cases partially filled the basement, including a rusted sign: “Wah’s Chinese Groceries.”

  In the corner of the basement, square iron rods had been set into the cobbles and into the stone arches to form a cell with a wrought-iron gate.

  Three Chinese men sat on mats inside, reading newspapers by small lamps. Three sleeping bags were spread on air cushions. They regarded Benson quietly as he approached.

  “Dr. Sing?”

  “Why, yes, Mr. Benson. What brings you here?”

  “I’m glad I found you, Doctor.” He looked at the two other men and paused.

  “Forgive me,” said Dr. Sing. “These are my two close friends, Mr. Tuck and Mr. Wah.” They stood and shook Benson’s hand.

  He waited.

  “You may speak without hesitation, Mr. Benson.”

  “Well, I came because I didn’t get any answer on your phone. I wanted to learn how you made out today.”

  “But you didn’t get my message?”

  “No.”

  “I called your office and left a message. I have a meeting in Washington tomorrow morning with our contact in the Department of Immigration and Naturalization.”

  “Oh. Tomorrow.”

  Dr. Sing smiled. “In the meantime,” he said, “I have taken precautions.”

  “I see. At first I thought you were in jail.”

  “In a way I am. This cellar goes back to colonial days. The customs officer of the port used it for impounding contraband. I will sleep safely here tonight. Mr. Wah’s four sons will sleep on the floor above. One of them is a weight lifter who can bend steel rods. I’ve sent my wife to relatives for a few days.”

  Benson gripped one of the iron bars and pulled on it.

  “Impregnable,” said Dr. Sing. He regarded Benson patiently. “I do think you should know what I learned from the police today. They interrogated Tran Cao Kheim: at nine last night, when Custis was murdered, Kheim was in full sight of a number of witnesses.”

  “All children?” asked Benson.

  “Plus two adults.”

  Benson sighed. “Lock your door tonight, Doctor.”

  “I …” Dr. Sing hesitated. “I think you should too.”

  “I will. And I’ve moved my family out of my home for a while.”

  “Excellent. Excellent. Well, tomorrow may bring good news. Suppose I call you from Washington as soon as I have something definite.”

  “I’d like that.”

  “Well, Professor Hawthorn is in Arizona for a few days, and the Garmans are in Bermuda. You are the only one I can contact.”

  “Mrs. Garman didn’t go to Bermuda, I believe.”

  Dr. Sing frowned. “I didn’t know. I shall call her and advise her to move into a hotel or motel or with relatives. Thank you for telling me.”

  “I wish you good luck tomorrow, Doctor. And good night.”

  Benson nodded at the three of them and turned and left. As he passed through the grocery store, he counted off the sons. There were four of them; one, the weight lifter, probably weighed two hundred fifty pounds. He looked more than a match for a shambling collection of lead pipes decked in scarecrow’s clothing.

  Benson walked out on the street.

  They were temple cats. Tibetan temple cats. Close relatives to the Siamese, they were larger—huge, in fact—and were bred to be identical to the original vicious breed that had guarded the ancient temples in Tibet. By training and instinct they attacked in packs, although any one of them alone would be a formidable adversary for a human. In a group of three or four, they could quickly kill. Able to jump higher than a man’s head, they attacked by leaping at his eyes from the front and, from the rear, mounting his back and shoulders. They killed by biting or clawing his throat to tear open the jugular vein, or by biting through the cervical cortex at the base of the skull.

  They were lithe and extraordinarily quick, with highly developed musculature—especially the muscles of the buttocks and of the shoulders, which they used when tearing with their claws….

  In Kheim’s house they would attack a stranger without hesitation. There they were pampered and carefully disciplined. Kheim’s assistant trained them every day. They were encouraged to leap up walls to capture bits of fish dangling from strings, to attack man-sized dummies, to stalk rolling marbles. Wooden scratching posts kept their muscles hard.

  At ten o’clock that night, when Kheim retired to meditate, they were restless, and, left to themselves, their playfulness had turned vicious. Khungh, the dominant cat, a large male of exceptional aggressiveness, became irritable, crying and pacing in and out of the plants by the huge front windows. He rolled on the rug, walked up and down, slapping his front paws on the soft carpeting. One of the females reacted to his pacing and cried at him. He made three great leaps and, slashing with claws and teeth, drove her up a circular stairwell. The other cats sat quietly at the end of the room and watched.

  At last Khungh gave a dancing, writhing jump as though taking evasive action. Now he seemed calmer: he sat and cleaned his face, then groomed his body with licking tongue and stroking paws. When he finished he stretched and approached the other cats. He looked at them and cried several times before turning to glide down the stairs, his tail held high. Without hesitation, the others followed him.

  Khungh passed the large room on the first floor where the young beggars were sleeping. The drum hung by its soiled twine from a peg by the door. The tambourines, their metal discs reflecting the one night light, were next
to the drum. The cats left the building by the hinged panel at the bottom of the front door.

  Khungh fell into a rapid pace, nearly a trot, as he led the way down the cobblestone alley. The other cats in a loose band followed closely after him. They traveled in silence, attending only to the demanding pace.

  A few blocks from the temple, Khungh slowed his pace, then stopped. With the cat’s singular sense of smell, he’d picked up their odor before he’d heard them: two stray dogs at a can of garbage behind a restaurant.

  One of the dogs raised his head and looked at the eight cats. He gave a short gruff bark and trotted away toward Arch Street.

  The other dog pulled his head from the garbage can and studied the cats. He was large, tough and streetwise, and he’d disputed stray cats for the contents of garbage cans many times before. He warned them off with a series of sharp barks.

  Khungh led the cats in a circle around the dog and the garbage can. This move upset the dog, who went directly for Khungh, snapping with bared teeth. Two of the cats took to his rear and slashed at his haunches with their claws. He turned in a fury from Khungh, who responded immediately. He caught the dog’s lower lip in his teeth, drove all five claws of both front paws into the dog’s muzzle. Having secured this firm purchase, he swung his back legs up and raked his hind claws over the dog’s throat, easily slicing open the loose flesh. The dog, unable to open its mouth, shook his head violently, trying to throw the cat. When this failed, the dog howled with fear and drove the cat into a wall. Khungh released his front claws and bounded onto the dog’s back while the other cats watched. The dog spun in circles as Khungh’s front claws reached down in each side and tore again at his throat, this time opening a large artery. It was quickly finished. The dog’s racing heart pumped most of his blood out of the artery, through slashes and down the chest and legs. Still fighting to stand up, he knelt for a moment, then laid his head on the blood-puddled cobbles.

  Khungh bounded off the carcass and, without resting, resumed his quick pace to Filbert Street, then to Third, and followed the lights along the empty streets.

  He turned at Arch Street, soon passing between the ancient graves and headstones of Christ Church Cemetery and past the clusters of pennies on Ben Franklin’s gravestone. He moved along the brick wall through the wrought-iron picket fence, crossed to the original Quaker Meeting House and turned north there on Fifth Street along Independence Mall. He and the cats that followed were indifferently observed by the uniformed guard at the main door of the U.S. Mint. The cats turned west on Race Street.

  The glowing yellow face of the tower clock in Independence Mall showed ten-fifteen.

  Now Khungh was but a few blocks from his destination. He led the pack past the Museum of Living History, past the two squat towers of the Philadelphia Police Administration Building and there, at Eighth and Race Streets, entered Chinatown.

  The cats moved without hesitation through the pedestrians who were strolling in front of the brightly lit Chinese restaurants. Khungh made his final turn off Race Street; paused there, across the street from Wah’s Chinese Grocery Store.

  His eyes rested for a moment on Eddie Benson, who had just left the store. The cat cocked his head at the man, observing his gait and the pitch of his head on his shoulders.

  Slowly, Khungh bared his teeth and hissed at Benson, walking unaware on the opposite sidewalk. The cat seemed to be making a decision. He stepped toward Benson, then back. He sat down.

  Immediately he moved forward in a long, loping stride, the other seven cats right behind him. They entered the grocery store and darted along the length of counters, avoiding the feet of customers and clerks alike, virtually unnoticed. They moved at a rocking, bounding run now, through the back room to the basement staircase. Khungh ran soundlessly down the dished wooden steps, closely attended by his followers.

  Turning at the foot of the stairs, Khungh charged. He slipped easily through the square bars of the cell and leaped at Dr. Sing.

  CHAPTER 4

  Benson had just gotten up when he heard the morning paper drop on the doormat outside his mother-in-law’s apartment. Standing in the doorway, he read the news of Dr. Sing’s death.

  The news article stated that the police were scouring the streets around Chinatown, looking for a band of wild house cats, possibly rabid. Benson, remembering the huge muscular cats in Kheim’s window, knew that Dr. Sing had been killed by no band of homeless strays. Behind his iron bars, he’d never had a chance.

  Benson walked back to the bedroom and sat on the bed next to Susan. “It’s Dr. Sing. He was killed last night.”

  “Killed?” She sat up quickly and took the paper from him.

  “I’d better see how that Garman woman is.” He dialed Garman’s number and got no answer.

  Susan put the paper down and slumped back against the headboard. “Oh, dear God.” Then she looked up at her husband. “Eddie, you have to get police protection. Or a film assignment. You could go on a film assignment far away from here. Do they have you scheduled for one?”

  “Africa.”

  “That’s it, Eddie. Take it. Professor Whatshisname is in Arizona and Pammy’s father is in Bermuda. You need to get away too.”

  Two dead, two out of the city—and one not answering her phone.

  “How long would you be in Africa?” asked Susan,

  “I don’t know. Six weeks. Eight, maybe.”

  “Two months.” She looked up at him. “Go.”

  “Now?”

  “Eddie, you’ll be safe in Africa.”

  “I’ll be hiding in Africa.”

  “When are you scheduled to leave?”

  “A few days.”

  “So go now. What’s a few days more or less to the company?”

  “With Renni still at Kheim’s? Sue, I can’t do that.”

  “Yes you can. In a few days you’ll have to go, Renni or no Renni. And staying here won’t get Renni home.”

  “Neither will going to Africa.”

  “Eddie, you can’t help here. Admit it.”

  “I can help a lot more than I can in Africa, Sue. Now that’s enough.”

  “Do it, Eddie. Can you leave today?”

  “Sue, you’re getting hysterical.”

  “Yes. And I’m going to get worse.”

  Benson showered and shaved and dressed. When he came out of the bathroom he found his bag packed on the bed. He stared at Susan. “One bag? For two months in Africa?”

  “Don’t think about it, Eddie. Just go. I’ll send the rest later.”

  “Oh, come on, Sue.”

  “Don’t come back here tonight, Eddie.”

  He took the bag off the bed and walked out of the apartment with one suitcase in hand and one damp kiss on his lips. This was no time to argue with her. Benson had other pressing business to see to.

  It was a short drive to the Garman house; when Benson reached it, no one answered the bell. He knocked on the door panel, he thumped with the heel of his fist, then he looked through a parting in the draperies of the front windows. The cat struggled up to the window in front of the drapes and showed an unhappy open mouth to him.

  Through the parting he could see a narrow band of living room and kitchen. Nothing seemed out of order, but all the lights were on. He thumped again, then went around to the back of the house and pounded on the kitchen door. He squinted through the door curtain: the kitchen looked normal enough—although, again, all the lights were on. Benson now walked across the backyard to the house on the right and knocked firmly on the back door, summoning a young woman in a housecoat and a large dog.

  “Yes.”

  “My name’s Benson and I’m worried about Mrs. Garman.”

  The woman frowned, not understanding. “Isn’t her husband—I mean … what do you mean?”

  “Garman’s in Bermuda. She’s alone in the house and I don’t get any answer on the telephone.”

  “Are you sure she’s not in Bermuda with him?”

  “She didn
’t go with him. Look, it’s lit up like Christmas over there. Every light’s on and the car is in the driveway.”

  “What did you say your name was?”

  “Benson. Eddie Benson. I live up the lane about a mile.”

  “Oh. You must be Renni’s father.”

  “Yes.”

  “I see. Is this about the two girls—Pammy and Renni?”

  “In a way. Do you have a key?”

  “Key? Oh. Well, no. I don’t have a key.” The dog slobbered on the doorframe. “But I can get one. Stay! Stay!” She pushed the dog’s head back, then stepped past Benson and scurried across Garman’s backyard flagstones to the house on the other side. She knocked at the back door and entered. A few moments later she emerged with an older woman; they both walked back into Garman’s yard, followed by Benson. The older woman pushed a key in a kitchen door lock and opened the door.

  The three of them entered. “Ceely. Ceely!” The kitchen was bare except for a few dishes piled in the sink. Lights burned everywhere as they stepped through the rest of the downstairs. A half-dozen soiled glasses sat on the coffee table in the television room.

  Benson walked to the staircase and started up while the two women watched him from the base of the steps. At the top, he turned and walked into the master bedroom. The unmade bed was empty, as was the room. On the night table by the bed, propped in front of the table radio, was an envelope. He walked across the bedroom to the bathroom.

  Cecelia Garman was sitting on the floor next to the bathtub in a skirt and sweater, her legs folded under her, a glass of gin on the floor next to her knees. Her arms extended out over the tub and her head lay on one arm, showing her eye bruise which was now a faded yellow-green. She’d cut both her wrists and let them bleed into the tub.

  Benson walked back into the bedroom and looked at the envelope. It was addressed in ink: “For Pamela.”

  Benson drove out Locust Street. By the time he’d reached Broad, it was raining steadily. Everything was coming at him too fast: Custis dead, Sing dead, Cecelia Garman dead, Sue trying to chase him to Africa and Benson driving in his car, not knowing what he was going to do next.