Tribe (24 page)

He peered through the doorway, saw a large, empty dining room table, and proceeded. That room opened into the living room, a space that was filled with many chairs and there, right in the middle of the floor, a dirty diaper. Zeb and the child, though, were not to be seen. Paul realized there was another room, one just to the left. Okay, so they were right behind that closed door. Paul could hear them clearly now, could hear the baby, the hushing sounds of her father. Simple. And Paul, his gun drawn, slowly and quietly proceeded around the edge of the dining room table. When he reached the door itself he paused, heard the laughing of a child and the soft tinkling of some lullaby. With his free left hand he reached for the doorknob. Next he twisted the knob, threw open the door, and charged in.

The room, however, was completely empty.

“Shit!” he cursed.

On the bed was a small tape recorder, and from it emerged the baby voices and lullabies he'd heard. Realizing he'd been duped, he ducked back out of the room. No, Zeb couldn't have gotten out the back way, so Paul charged through the living room, running right across the soiled diaper. He glanced up the stairs, then hurried to the front door, which he ripped open. His eyes immediately went to Zeb's half-buried car, which was still sitting there. He glanced across the street, saw some kids shoveling.

Up the street he noticed a vehicle, a small Jeep with a black canvas top, that was stopped right in the middle of the road. And there was Zeb, clutching the baby and talking frantically to the driver. Paul rushed out, but just as quickly Zeb raced around the vehicle, climbed in, and then all that Paul could do was watch the Jeep chug away through the deep snow.

As soon as Todd
drove his dark green Cherokee up the snowy street to the rundown building, he knew the answer. He checked the address they'd been given at the hospital personnel department and looked up at the small gray house, which was clearly falling apart.

“This is the place, but Zeb's not here,” he said to Rawlins, who sat in the passenger seat.

“And what makes you say that?”

“Look at the snow. No one has shoveled and there aren't even any footprints.”

“Actually, it doesn't look like anyone's living here, does it?”

The little building, located in a rundown neighborhood not too far from the old Sears store on Lake Street, did in fact look deserted. Unbroken snow not only covered the front walk leading to the house, but had also drifted up against the front door. Todd took note of three metal mailboxes tacked by the front door and assumed that this wreck of a house had been carved up into three apartments by some absentee slum lord. That this was all Zeb could afford didn't surprise Todd.

Parking in a drift, Todd and Rawlins climbed out and made their way up the steps and onto the front porch. The address they'd been given at the hospital claimed that Zeb lived in Apartment 3, but there was no name on that mailbox, only an arrow pointing to the side.

“Come on,” said Todd.

Reaching the back of Zeb's house, Todd and Rawlins found the third apartment, a small ground-floor place. Rawlins put a finger to his lips and motioned for Todd to stop just outside the door. They stood still, trying to discern anything from within—a TV, a stereo—but there was nothing, least of all a baby's cry. Todd then stepped forward and peered through a small window in the door. Inside he saw a tiny kitchen with one chair and then a room beyond, on the floor of which lay a mattress, the sheets and blanket pushed all around.

“He's obviously not here,” said Todd. “God, I wish we could take a look inside, see if any of that stuff is his.”

“Good idea.”

Rawlins nudged Todd aside, pulled back his gloved hand, and punched a hole in the small window in the door.

“Oh, shit, that hurt,” said Rawlins, clutching his fist.

“I can't believe you just did that.”

He nodded at the door and said, “Well, don't just stand there.”

Todd glanced from side to side, saw no neighbors, and pushed in a few more shards of glass. He then reached through the small hole, fumbled around until he found a bolt. Within a matter of seconds he was pushing back the door and they were inside.

The apartment was as pathetic as it was small. What had probably once been a back hall was now filled with something that was supposed to be a kitchen: an old, dingy refrigerator on the right, a worn sink on the left, and a tiny electric stove just beyond that. Neatly placed on a counter were a single plate, a bowl, glass, knife, spoon, fork, and toothbrush, all laid out to dry on a dish towel. Todd took a couple of more steps, peered into a tiny bathroom with only a toilet and haphazard shower crammed into its crooked corners. A single brown towel was neatly folded on the only towel bar. Even before they moved into the next room Todd knew that this was in fact Zeb's place. While Zeb may have shaken a religious cult, he was still operating under their code of cleanliness and order. The only thing in the entire apartment that was disheveled was the mattress, which along with the chair in the kitchen constituted the extent of furniture. Todd and Rawlins stood on the edge of the main room, a space no larger than ten by twelve, and studied the orange shag carpeting, the flimsy fake-wood paneling on the walls, and the sheets and blanket that had been kicked and tossed this way and that.

Rawlins went directly to a small closet at the back and rifled through some shirts and pants while Todd just stood there, overwhelmed. This was the shadow of Zeb's life, his few possessions, his pathetic home. So just how was Todd related to all this, if at all?

Todd spotted a black canvas suitcase against the wall, lifted it, noted that it had some weight to it, then took the bag and sat down on the edge of the mattress. Unzipping it, he found a makeshift dresser: socks and underwear filling one side of it, some T-shirts and a pair of jeans in the other. In a small side pouch Todd discovered a manila envelope filled with papers. Looking inside that, the first thing he found was a color photograph.

“No doubt about it, this is Zeb's place,” he said, studying the picture. “Here's a photograph of Ribka and him.”

Rawlins had returned to the kitchen, where he was opening the one overhead cabinet, and asked, “Anything else?”

“Just a sec.”

Peering into the envelope, Todd spied a stack of papers, which he dumped onto the mattress. It was a file of sorts, Zeb having gathered all of his important papers together. There were a couple of letters postmarked Santa Fe—hadn't Janice said that was where his mother lived?—some photos taken somewhere in the mountains, his birth certificate, a couple of old grade-school report cards, his social security card. And finally a blood-donor card, which Todd studied carefully. It was from a blood bank in Santa Fe, and it listed not only Zeb's blood type as AB but that he had twice given blood. The last time had been three and a half years ago, which Todd figured would have been just prior to Zeb's reunion with his father in Colorado.

“Nothing really in the kitchen or bathroom,” said Rawlins, having gone over them a second time. “How about you, find anything?”

Todd stared at the blood-donor card, realizing that it could hold the answer to the most pressing question on his mind. Did he even dare mention it to Rawlins?

“No, nothing,” said Todd, stuffing everything except the donor card back in the envelope.

“Not even any telephone numbers?”

“Nope.”

“Then where did he sleep last night?” asked Rawlins. “I mean, he had a baby with him, and I'm just assuming or rather hoping that that was his own kid, that he somehow got her back. You don't suppose he knows someone else in town, do you?”

“I have no idea. Maybe we should stop by some of the shelters.”

“That's not a bad idea.” Rawlins checked his watch. “Shit, I have a deposition downtown in twenty minutes. Can you give me a lift? I think we found everything here that we're going to, don't you?”

“Yeah,” replied Todd as he got up, for he'd potentially discovered far more than he'd hoped for. “Let's go.”

Like the roar of
an approaching jet, the deep, steady rumbling grew with each moment, and Janice was glad for it. She recognized what the sound meant: liberation. There was, however, no aircraft aiming right for her house or even approaching the nearby airport. Instead, Janice turned around at the kitchen table where she sat and saw the top of a huge blue truck barreling down her alley. The plows were out in full force, and quite obviously they were making good progress. At least now she'd be able to get her car out of the garage. Thank God for small miracles.

Less than ten minutes ago she'd walked in the door after meeting Pat, and the phone had been ringing. She'd charged in, grabbed the cordless phone, and dropped herself at the breakfast table. It was Todd, calling on his car phone to explain that they'd been to Zeb's apartment, not found him there, and that now he was taking Rawlins downtown to the police station. Todd then went on to say he was going to swing by his house, pick up some clothes, and head back to her place in little over an hour. Refusing to go into it over the phone, he said there was something they needed to talk about.

No shit, Sherlock, she thought, still seated at the small marble table.

Wearing her coat, not to mention her Sorrel boots, beneath which had already formed a good-size puddle, she tried to figure out a course of action. Todd was going to come back, and what was she going to do? Of course she was going to tell him she'd just met with Pat. She had to. Somehow she'd thought she might be able to mediate a solution to all this, but after seeing Pat she realized it wasn't possible. So she'd report all that to Todd and…and then, well, she couldn't put it off any longer. She simply had to tell him that which she'd been avoiding for so long, namely that Pat might be Zeb's real father.

She bowed her head, shook it. How had this turned into such a mess? Where were Zeb and Ribka? Were they all right?

She stared down at the phone in front of her. Come on, damn it all, ring! Come on, Zeb, call me! The phone, however, just lay on its side on the small marble table as if it were dead.

She thought back to last night when the intruder had broken in and taken Ribka, and Janice castigated herself for not having been tougher, fought harder. She'd promised Zeb that nothing would happen to Ribka, that she'd guard her with her life. Yet she'd failed. If he didn't already, surely Zeb would hate her for this. God, she'd really and truly blown it. What kind of mother was she? What kind of grandmother? She could take care of no one, protect no one, she thought as her eyes began to bead with tears. Whatever confidence Zeb had been hoping to find in her, she'd lost. He gave her a second chance, and she'd ruined it. Oh, shit, she thought, staring at the phone, she'd be surprised if Zeb ever spoke to her again.

Suddenly the phone rang.

She jumped in her chair, and at first she couldn't believe it. Then she lunged for the handset.

“Hello?” she said, unable to hide the desperation in her voice.

“It's me.”

Her voice immediately started trembling, and she asked, “Zeb?”

“Yeah.”

She bit her lip, could barely speak. Yes, that was his voice. Just get a grip, Janice.

“Thank God. Are you—”

“You've got to come get us,” he interrupted.

“What?”

“You've got to pick us up.”

“Sure. Of course. Anything. Anywhere. Do you have Ribka? Is she with you?”

“Yeah, I've got her.” He hesitated, then asked, “You didn't…you didn't just give her to that guy, did you?”

“What?”

“Paul, this guy from The Congregation, had Ribka. I snuck up on him—that's how I got her back. But…but you didn't just give him to her, did you?”

“No! God, no!” She put her hand to her chest. “Zeb, believe me, please. He broke in and—”

“So I can trust you?” he asked bluntly.

“Absolutely.”

“He didn't hurt you, did he? Are you all right?”

“What?” said Janice. “I'm fine. But what about Ribka? What about you? You're not hurt, are you?”

“No, but listen, we're at a phone booth in front of a gas station. It's cold. And something terrible just happened. I'll tell you all about it, but you gotta come get us now, right now.”

“I've already got my coat on.”

Zeb gave her the address, and within seconds Janice was out the back door, tearing through the sun and snow to her garage.

Todd drove into the
dark, cavernous garage of his condominium building, removing his sunglasses so he could see. After he'd parked in his stall he headed to the lobby to check his mailbox, which he did in a daze, taking the staircase down and past the security desk, couch, and several chairs, then crossing to the bank of boxes at the far side. All he could think about was Zeb's blood-donor card. What should he say to Janice?

As Todd lifted his key to his mailbox a figure stepped around the corner and said, “Hello.”

Todd barely looked up and replied, “Good morning.”

He was in no mood to talk about yesterday's storm or today's sunshine, whether any of the snow would melt or if there was another blizzard on the way, and he reached into his box and grabbed a handful of mail. All he wanted to do was gather some clothes and head back to Janice's, for they had more than a few things to discuss.