Tribe (7 page)

And now that little shit of a son-in-law wanted to ruin it all!

He'd always known that Zeb had a bad attitude, that he'd been an unbeliever. He hadn't realized, though, how dangerous he really was. Nor had he ever imagined that he could cause such tribulation.

“Oh, Suzanne,” he said, his back to his daughter, “ ‘The heart is deceitful above all things, and desperately wicked: who can know it?' Jeremiah chapter seventeen, verse nine.”

“Daddy…” moaned the young blond woman huddled on the couch, her eyes red with tears. “When's my baby coming home?”

“Soon, precious. Real soon.”

As God's Apostle on earth and the leader of The Congregation, he and his daughter lived in the only private house on the compound, this small white rambler, and Henry now crossed the living room, his fat, round face red with fury. Dropping himself on the sofa next to his daughter, he took her in his arms. Beautiful Suzanne. She was so gorgeous with her thick, curly hair, her perfect rosy complexion, those blue eyes and white teeth. How in the world could anyone do something like this to his wonderful baby doll?

Henry said, “I can't wait to personally beat the crap out of that juvenile delinquent husband of yours. I could kill him. I really could, and maybe I will, darling. Maybe I will. How dare he kidnap your baby!”

“I want my little girl!”

“I know, Suzanne, I know, this is just so ghastly.”

As his daughter burst into another round of tears, Henry wrapped his big arms around her and pulled her deep into his chest. This poor child. Here she'd lost her own mother when she wasn't even ten, and now she'd had her young baby ripped away in the middle of the night.

“Dear Lord, I just knew you shouldn't have married that boy. I knew he was trouble, I surely did,” he muttered. “Didn't I tell you that? Didn't I tell you he was going to be nothing but trouble?”

“Y-y-yes, Daddy.”

“That's right, I did. And are you going to listen to me from now on?”

“Yes.”

“And do just what I say?”

“Yes.”

“Yes, what?”

“Yes, sir.”

“That's my good girl.”

He ran his hand through her hair, bent over, and kissed her on the forehead. He closed his eyes, felt sinful, for all he secretly wanted right now—as he always did in times of stress—was a cigarette, a strong one, nothing filtered, to take a long, deep drag on. But he forced the wicked desire from his mind, for he'd long ago given up such an unclean vice, and instead he clung to his daughter.

“Don't worry, precious. I'm gonna make everything all right. Just you wait. Your little baby's coming back before you know it. And when they drag that animal of a boy back here, he's gettin' a whipping he'll never forget. Not to worry, precious. Daddy's gonna take care of everything. Everything's gonna be all right.”

As he came around
the corner he accelerated too quickly, the rear of his sedan fishtailed out, and his pistol slid across the front seat. He quickly steered in the opposite direction, the car whipped to the other side, and his gun slid back against his hip. He then braked on the snowy street and came to a slick, slow stop. After taking a long, deep breath, he started over.

Paul wasn't used to such a consummate winter. And he wasn't used to driving on such slippery streets. A large, thick-chested man with dark hair and a bushy mustache, he carefully pressed down on the gas, testing the slickness of the road as if he were testing thin ice. As his car gained momentum he proceeded down the curving, sloping streets of Tangletown, the well-to-do neighborhood that straddled the hills along Minnehaha Creek in south Minneapolis. When he came to the bottom of a slope, he did just as he was told: pumped and pumped the brake. It worked too. Rather than sliding through the intersection, he glided to a complete halt at the stop sign, whereupon he let out a deep sigh. Thank God for miracles, large and small.

Rick and he had been by the house earlier this afternoon, so Paul knew he was close. They'd driven by slowly, seen that delivery truck, which they both assumed could mean only one thing. And now that it was dark Paul had come back to check out the phone lines on this house. But the roads had gotten so bad that the trip, which had taken only twenty minutes this afternoon, was tonight taking almost an hour. So much snow. It was ridiculous, none of it melting but piling up, he thought, turning the windshield wipers up to high speed. On the other hand, the heavy snow might prove fortuitous, for his footprints around the house would quickly disappear.

In the glow of a streetlight he nudged aside the black pistol and lifted a pad on which Rick had scribbled the directions. Yes, a left here. Next a right across the creek itself, and then another left. From there it was only about a block. Easy, Paul told himself. All he had to do was manage to stay out of the snowbanks lining the road. Or the frozen creek, for that matter.

Paul turned the last corner and felt his car glide as freely as a hockey puck. His heart began to surge, but then the car sank into some deep snow and the treads of the tires bit down. Driving cautiously on, he wondered how the next hour would play out. At worst he'd only be able to scope things tonight. At best it would be simple, the phone lines would be right there, and he'd be able to install the device. He'd be done and gone within minutes.

His was the only car passing down the parkway that ran alongside Minnehaha Creek, and he drove slowly, his eyes as much on the road as on the large houses to the right. And there it was, covered in white, the red tile roof buried beneath snow and deep drifts crawling up the light stucco walls. The four arching windows that lined the front of the house had been lifeless this afternoon but were now all ablaze. A party, a group of neighbors gathered to while away the storm? As he drove past, however, he could see no one lingering in the windows. Only a single car on the street. So maybe just one guest.

At the first corner Paul turned right, found a spot neglected by the streetlight, and parked. He reached for his pistol, which he dropped into the large pocket of his coat, then from the backseat he took the small white device, identical to the one he'd installed on the house in Santa Fe. Next he removed his winter gloves, slipping on in their place a pair of skintight leather ones.

As Paul started down the alley, he was amazed by the snow falling on his head and shoulders. Sure it snowed back home, sometimes as heavily as this, but this was different, a winter that was absolute in its chill and purpose. He had a sense that this snow wasn't going to melt until March at the earliest.

A garage light suddenly flashed on, and he lifted a gloved hand as much to conceal his face as to shield his eyes from the glare. But no one appeared and there wasn't even a hint of movement. And after he passed, the light snapped off. Only a motion detector.

Her house was the third one down, the garage door painted a rust red to match the Spanish tiled roof. And as he neared, he scanned the ground. In the faint winter night light he searched for signs of tire tracks, could see none, and then behind the garage itself bent over and brushed aside some of the new snow. No indication that she'd gone out anytime recently. Edging up alongside the small structure, he peered into a small frost-covered window, saw a red car. Very good. So she was here.

The small plastic device in hand, he opened a gate and scanned the backyard, which lay under a mat of fresh, downy snow, not a footprint to be seen. His eyes trained on the back of the house, he pressed forward. He eyed the kitchen window and then, to the left, the side door. Next to that the small blue sign of an alarm company struggled to poke from the layer of snow. He doubted very much, however, that her alarm system would be on; it was too early, she had company. Checking the spotlight attached to the back of the house, he was relieved to see that, unlike the other one down the alley, it wouldn't be triggered by his movements.

A muted light flashed, and Paul flinched. Dear God, had someone snapped his picture? No, he realized, it was the flat, dark sky above crackling with bizarre brilliance. He stared up, saw nothing more, but then heard a deep, threatening roar. Snow thunder. And even as he recognized the strange phenomenon, the snow began to fall in a heavy squall, the flakes huge and thick. He trudged quickly across the yard, paused at the edge of the house, and peered up at the threatening sky. The wintry thunder had been an omen, a bad one.

He just had to be businesslike about this, he thought, his eyes searching the power lines until he fixed on the telephone cable. Right. It was a big thick line coming from the alley, drooping slightly until it reached the house at this rear corner. As his good luck would have it, the lines didn't enter the dwelling up at the attic level, but were instead attached to the stucco exterior and ran all the way down to the basement level, where they ended in a gray plastic box. Perfect. He'd be able to accomplish his goal.

It didn't take him long. Back in Chicago he'd installed hundreds if not thousands of burglar alarms for both homes and businesses. Which of course was why he was now in charge of security at The Congregation. So with expert hands, Paul snipped a couple of wires and within moments had the small white box attached to the wires. This would make things all the easier.

He was about to retreat to his car when he heard something else. A rumble, but this one rhythmic. Music. The stereo inside was blaring the songs of the unconverted. So was it a party after all? He checked the house next door, saw that a hedge of evergreens would keep his presence concealed, and slipped along the side of the house. He ducked beneath one window, spied through the next, and saw a gleaming wooden table. There was no one in the dining room, though, and he moved forward, drawn by the music. He remembered that tune, didn't he, from his days prior to his conversion? Sure. Diana Ross.

Approaching the next window, Paul hesitated. Light was flooding out. He peered in, saw no one. There was only one car on the street, but perhaps she'd invited a handful of neighbors over and they'd arrived on foot and were now dancing away the storm. If that was the case, though, where were they? He leaned forward, could see no one.

A figure whirled into view.

Paul quickly pulled back, pressed himself against the cold stucco wall. He waited a moment, leaned forward again. There was a man, fairly tall, rather overweight. Balding. And twirling. Perplexed, Paul bent low and moved to the other side of the window. Suddenly the man inside froze, planting his feet to the floor, and holding out the palm of his hand as Ross sang “Stop in the Name of Love.” But the man was singing too. Or maybe he wasn't. His mouth was moving perfectly, his body now swaying as if he himself were performing the song. Was this all pretend? Was this grown man who was now wiggling his hips and holding out his hand so effeminately merely pretending to be a star?

It didn't make any sense. Trying to ascertain the situation, Paul moved further. The man appeared to be singing to someone. Surely it had to be the woman who lived here. But no, as the heavy snow fell upon Paul's head and shoulders, he pressed himself against the edge of the window. And it was then that he saw the man's audience: a tiny baby lying on the floor.

Of course it was Ribka, for he most definitely recognized the white cotton knit blanket in which she was wrapped. Sure, it was one of the blankets made at The Congregation for all the children born there. So what was Paul to do, stand out here in the freezing cold and watch this sodomite perform some Satanic dance in front of the child?

Just as he knew there was no time to seek Rick's approval, Paul knew that it was his Godly duty to get this ailing child back to The Congregation as soon as possible so she could be healed.

“Oh my God, Janice,
did you see that?” asked Todd, leaning over the steering wheel of his Grand Cherokee and staring up at the dark sky in amazement. “That was it again—lightning.”

Before she could reply, an earthquake-like rumble shook the air, the ground, the car. The stoplight had turned green, but neither Todd nor the car next to him moved. Passengers in both cars, like the patrons of the small pizzeria across the street who were pressed against the glass, stared up at the heavens.

“That was so cool,” he said.

Bundled tightly in her wool coat, Janice blotted her eyes with the back of her gloved hands. “Thunder in winter—it's not right. Particularly January. Maybe in November or March, you know, at the beginning or end of winter, but not now. Not in January. It's gotten warmer, but it's still too cold for something like that.”

“Maybe it's going to do it a third time,” said Todd, still studying the sky.

“Come on, let's go. It scares me.”

“But it's so great.”

“Todd, I want to get home,” she urged in a desperate voice that he knew only too well.

“Todd,
I'm going home tomorrow and then off to Europe” she said, locking the door of her room. “Who knows when we'll see each other again. If ever.”

“But aren't you worried?” he asked almost desperately. “I mean, isn't it a bit dangerous?”

“No, it's all part of a cycle, and it's okay. For a few days now I can't get pregnant. I'm not fertile.”

He didn't quite understand it, this timing stuff All he knew was that on the way up here she'd said she wanted to do it, to make love. It was her farewell present to him, to them. This was what he wanted, wasn't it? Sure, he'd said, nodding, feeling that as a guy he couldn't really respond otherwise and at the same time trying desperately not to let her see his fear.