Always Leave ’Em Dying (3 page)

Her voice had dropped lower, become more hushed as she spoke of the All-High, and she sounded now almost like a missionary reading the Bible to a happily naked heathen. She went on reverently for a few more sentences, and at the first pause I broke in.

"The All-High, I take it, is Trammel?"

"Mr. Trammel, of course."

Of course. I knew already that Trammel held some kind of nightly confessional, but this was the first mention of any Healing Room—and the first time I'd heard him called the All-High. A few others had spoken of the bum as the Master, however. He was in solid with his flock.

I asked Mary, "What kind of advice or help could Felicity have needed from—from the All-High?"

"I don't know. She didn't say anything to me."

I got up, thanked them, and left. Mrs. Lewis said good-by, which was the only thing she'd said to me after hello. She'd kept a very beady eye on me, though, while I talked to her daughter.

I made a few more fast calls, then rang the bell where one Betha Green lived. Betha was a surprise. It had got so I could anticipate what Trammelites would look like and how they'd be dressed. So far they'd all been so drab in appearance, somber, sad-looking, that you'd think the Master had just kicked the bucket.

Betha Green, though, looked pretty good. She wore an orange sweater that, for a Trammelite, was a sin, plus a pair of brown slacks, and was barefoot. I guessed she was seventeen or eighteen, and she wasn't a bad-looking gal.

When I introduced myself and told her I wanted to talk about Felicity, she smiled and said, "How is she? I haven't seen her for a couple of weeks. Ashamed of myself, really." She sat in a wooden chair on the porch and motioned me to another.

"I was hoping you had seen her," I said. "She left her house sometime last night. Hasn't been back."

Surprise grew into shock on her face. "Are you serious?" I nodded and Betha said anxiously, "Oh, I hope she isn't hurt."

"I haven't any idea where she is or what's happened. That's what I'm trying to find out. I hoped you might give me some help."

"How funny! I wish I could help. I really do."

The conversation finally came around to Trammelism and I said, "I understand that the All-High has a Healing Room where—"

She laughed in an odd way. "You mean Trammel?"

"Yeah." This one was really a surprise. I'd even fallen into the habit of referring to the boss as the All-High myself; when I didn't, or neglected the "Mr." before his name, terrible things happened to Trammelite faces. I said, still being careful, "Everyone calls him either that or the Master, so—"

"Oh, that's a lot of baloney."

"Balo— Aren't you a Trammelite, Miss Green?"

"I used to be, but I stopped going. I got tired of it."

"Oh?" I thought she might go on, and I tried to get more out of her on that subject, but she had dropped it. I said, "You know Felicity pretty well, don't you?"

"Uh-huh. We've been friends for years. I haven't seen her so much the last few months, but that's just because I stopped going to meetings."

"Can you think of any reason at all why she might have run away from home?"

"Uh-uh. I don't think she'd run away, though," she said quietly. "It just wouldn't be like her, no matter what."

"How do you mean?"

"You'd have to know her. That would hurt her mother, and she wouldn't hurt anybody for a million dollars."

"Funny, though. She must have left her room by herself. No telling what might have happened to her then, but leaving the house must have been her own idea."

"I just can't believe it."

"That reminds me." I told her about last night's call and Betha said she hadn't phoned. "She wrote down the name Dixon. Nobody seems—"

I stopped. We were both sitting in the wooden chairs and Betha had one hand resting on the edge of the seat, fingers curled loosely around it. She was looking toward the street so only part of her profile was visible, but her hand gripped the seat convulsively. Her knuckles turned white.

She didn't turn her head or speak, so I said, "What does that name mean to you?"

"Nothing. Should it?" Her voice was controlled, but her hand was still squeezed tight against the wood.

"Look at me a minute."

She turned toward me. Her face seemed a little paler, but otherwise she appeared normal, the same as before. I said, "That sort of jarred you, didn't it?"

She smiled and her hand relaxed. "What do you mean?"

"When I said Dixon. You got all wound up."

She laughed. "That's silly. I don't know what you mean."

That was her story and she stuck to it for the rest of our conversation. Maybe I was wrong; I didn't think so. I got up and said, "Thanks. If you think of anything that might help me—help Felicity, that is—call me, huh? I'm in the book."

"I will. Honestly, I will."

Arthur Trammel's stamping grounds, where he stamped out sin, were several miles north of L.A., almost to the town of Raleigh. I headed north. For the first time in my life, I was looking forward to seeing Trammel. I'd now talked to everybody on my list, all the routine was done, and from here on in, my search for Felicity would boil down to tedious legwork, or waiting to see if one of the lines I'd put out paid off—unless Trammel could give me some kind of lead.

There seemed a pretty good chance that he might be able to. During the morning, I'd been talking almost exclusively to his followers. Careful as I'd been to try sounding neutral when I spoke of him, my contempt must have coated my voice a few times, and I consequently got several very dirty looks. I now knew for sure that Arthur Trammel, to his flock, was hallelujah in three dimensions, about sixteen feet tall, and each inch irresistible. He was the Trammelites' friend, father, confidant, and wailing wall, a kind of cross between the father confessor and amateur psychoanalyst. The consensus had been that if anybody could help me, it would be the All-High. I hoped that was true. Mary Lewis had told me Felicity had gone to Trammel's confessional. And I figured that if Felicity had been in any kind of trouble, been worried or upset, she might have confided in Trammel or asked his help, as so many others had. It didn't seem likely that she'd have gone to her mother.

I drove onto the Trammelite grounds about noon. Ordinarily Trammel might have been difficult to locate, since he was often making speeches, meeting with committees, drawing up resolutions, and so on. But every Sunday noon he met here at headquarters with the other Guardians and they all spent an hour or so figuring out how to save the world from flaming hell. I parked my Cad in a big lot with three other Cads, a Packard, and a Buick, thinking that if the prospect of looking upon Trammel alone was unpalatable, all seven Guardians at once would be unhealthy.

Of the group, I'd met only Trammel, but I knew the names and appearances of the others from their frequent pictures and pronunciamentos in the local press. Those pronunciamentos made it clear that all seven felt that the difference between men and women should be a secret. Their current campaign—there was always a current campaign—was plastered over the papers and was directed, as usual, against what they called "filth." To me it was merely further proof that the Guardians wanted a return to those good old days when women covered up everything except their instincts; it was, basically, a frantic protest against "cleavage."

The Guardians would be meeting in the tent, but since this was my first visit to Trammelism's center, I looked around before getting out of the Cad. This was a pleasant location, surrounded by trees growing on low hills. The tent itself, as big as a Ringling Brothers job, was ahead of me and on my right. Directly behind it was a small cliff, rising only slightly higher than the tent's top, and a big cave was being blasted and dug into its face. Work had been in progress for the last month and a half-dozen men were back there now, around a puffing steam shovel. This operation, the Guardians declared, was destined to become Trammelism's "Eternal House." From the cliff's solid rock would be blasted a big room, in which Arthur Trammel would hold forth on special occasions, and which would "last through the ages." I told you they were crazy.

A fit's throw beyond the cliff and farther left, almost directly opposite my Cad, was a low, black building called the Truth Room. A few yards farther away was a small frame house where Trammel himself lived. I got out of the car and walked on green grass beneath flowing pepper trees to the tent. It was gloomy inside, but at the far end a light was burning, illuminating a wide raised platform or stage on which, at night, Trammel would stand and speak. On stage now was a big rectangular table around which the seven Guardians were grouped. Walking down one of the two aisles between rows of wooden seats, I could hear Trammel's melodious, beautifully modulated voice, a surprisingly lovely voice for so unlovely a bastard.

When I got closer, I noticed that an outsider was present, since eight people were seated around the table. Trammel was standing, addressing the others—until I walked up on the stage and he saw me.

He was saying, ". . . as our survey has indicated. Therefore, I am sure we all agree that it is our duty, yes, our— Sheldon Scott!"

"Good morning, Mr. Trammel. Sorry to burst in, but I need some information."

"What are you doing here, you—"

"If you've got a minute, I'd appreciate a little help. It's important." While he glared at me, taking his time about answering, I noticed that he was still nauseating in appearance.

There was no doubt about it, only one Trammel existed in all the world. It wasn't just his ugliness that set him apart from other men, but his particular ugliness. It was almost as though you were looking not at his face but at what he was thinking. Just under six feet tall, spike-thin, with small round eyes that seemed perpetually widened in surprise under monstrously bushy black brows, and dressed always in black, he looked like an undertaker who had embalmed himself by mistake.

Trammel's head was so freakishly thin that his brain must have looked like a waffle, and wisps of graying hair rested on white scalp that looked like bone. In the narrow space between those dark eyes protruded a long, curved, grappling-hook nose.

He was staring at me the same way he had on that day when I'd kicked him out of my office. Finally, he said, "You know better than to come here, Scott. And as for any help—"

"Wait a minute. I'm not after help for me personally; this is about a Trammelite, one of your followers."

The icy look remained another second, then slowly he smiled. That was the unkindest cut of all. It was as if invisible hooks pulled one lip up and the other down, the smile of a bald-headed man who had just been bombed by an eagle. "One of my followers?" he said. "Ah, well . . . I am always anxious to help any of my children."

"I'm trying to find a girl. Felicity Gifford. She's been missing a couple of days and may be in trouble, or hurt. Maybe she's just run away from home. Anyway, nobody seems to know what happened to her, and I thought she might have talked to you—or one of the other Guardians."

I glanced around at them. The two men beside Trammel were a retired doctor and a practicing mortician. The four others were called women: Andrews, a lady lawyer with a small mustache; two maiden ladies, each of whom looked several hundred years old; and the shriveled president of an all-female temperance society that demanded temperance in everything except temperance societies. The extra guy I'd noticed, the outsider, was a man who seemed familiar in appearance. I couldn't place him, but knew I'd seen him before.

"Felicity Gifford?" Trammel said. "I can't quite—"

"She's young, sixteen. Everybody I've talked to seems to think she's tops. Sings in your choral group."

"Oh, yes. Felicity." He nodded. "One of our finest children. I recall her now, of course, but I haven't spoken to her for weeks. I'm sorry, I do wish I could help. I am always ready to extend a helping hand—"

I interrupted, knowing I couldn't last through one of his sanctimonious speeches. "The thing is, I've talked with several Trammelites who told me you often help them with their problems, advise them. One said Felicity attended your confession a week or so back. That figures, if she was fouled up in any way, and I hoped she might have told you if anything was worrying her."

"Perhaps," Trammel said coldly, "but I never know to whom I speak. Anonymity is strictly preserved. I'm afraid none of us can be of help." He glanced around the table and the others shook their heads.

That seemed to wrap it up, and I was more disappointed than I'd thought I would be. I guess I'd been hoping irrationally that here I'd get some kind of lead to Felicity, and now I was right back where I'd started. The only thing worth remembering from the whole morning was the way Betha Green had acted, grabbing her chair and, I felt sure, lying to me.

I looked at Trammel. "One other thing. Does the name Dixon mean anything to you?"

He blinked at me. "What?"

"Dixon. Probably it's somebody's name. I thought it might be a Trammelite. Conceivably it's a lead to Felicity."

Trammel said, "It means nothing to me." Nobody at the table reacted in any way. The extra guy, I noticed, had a small notebook open before him and was jotting something in it. I almost had him made, but then I became aware of Trammel sputtering beside me.

". . . so get out. We cannot offer you any assistance, and I listened to you only because I hoped to help one of my friends. If we should learn anything of Felicity—or others in distress, for that matter—we would hardly inform a man of your stripe, Scott."

I looked back at him. "Huh? What stripe are you—"

He rode right over me. Either Trammel was finally getting back at me for my attitude the other time we'd met, or he was purposely trying to make me mad. He was succeeding in making me mad. When he spouted, "There are too many decent people—" I cut him off.

"Stow it, mister. Get this through your head: I don't give a damn what your opinion of me is. I'm only interested in the girl. Otherwise I wouldn't have come within a mile of here. Felicity's a young, sweet kid, and pretty enough, and I hate to think what might—"