Under the Beetle's Cellar (22 page)

“Is?”

“Yes, ma’am. A twenty-year-old homeless man at the time, living along Waller Creek. And guess what?”

“What?”

“Hank’s now a fifty-three-year-old homeless man living along Waller Creek and sometimes, in really inclement weather, at the Salvation Army. He often takes his meals there.”

“Does he have a sheet?”

“Sure. The usual class C misdemeanors—seventeen arrests for public intoxication and nine for trespass. Not too bad for a wino with such a long career. But he also has three arrests for peeping.”

“How did you track him down?”

“A combination of technology and native cop cunning.”

“Oh, Grady, I do love you.”

“Because I’m a crack investigator?”

“That. And because you fix toilets.”

“See, I’m useful around the house.”

“You certainly are.”

“You could have me on call twenty-four hours a day.”

“Like a live-in janitor?”

“Janitor, handyman, cop, lover, masseur—you can have it all.”

“Tempting. We’ll talk about it sometime.”

“Okay. Do you want to take over on Hank Hanley, Molly? Or shall I go roust him now, rough him up a little?”

She switched on the lamp so she could think better. “He’ll know you’re a cop and he might clam up. This is delicate. I think I’ll take it. First thing in the morning. God, I hope he hasn’t totally pickled his brains. Come over and tell me how you worked these miracles. Bring dog food, so you can feed the beast before you go back to Jezreel in the morning.”

“I’m on my way.”

She woke to the tickle of fingertips brushing down her spine, caressing one vertebra at a time, in circles so light it felt like butterfly wings. Then the butterflies spread out, fluttering along her ribs, under her arms, in circles around her breasts, and down her stomach, making her skin quiver in their path.

“Mmmm,” she said. “Don’t stop.”

A voice whispered in her ear, “I could wake you up every morning. How about an alarm clock that wakes you like this?” Lips touched the rim of her ear and the nape of her neck.

“Mmmm. Yes. That would be good. But what else would it do? Show me the full range.”

“Let’s see, there would be two hands coming out, like this.” He cupped her breasts. “Or maybe three hands.” He moved his foot up her leg, running the toes slowly from her ankle up her inner thigh. “Or four.” He pressed himself against her back.

Molly laughed. “No dreading the alarm going off.”

“Shhhh. You’ll wake him,” he whispered into her ear.

She glanced over the edge of the bed at the dark shape on the floor.

She opened her mouth to complain, to tell him that it was absurd to have to keep quiet for a dog, that he should throw the beast out, but Grady stopped all complaint with his mouth.

Afterward she asked, “Any news from Jezreel?”

“Nothing. Two more days left on Mordecai’s schedule. By the way, do you know the significance of Jezreel in the Bible?”

“You mean the great Valley of Jezreel where the Battle of Armageddon is going to take place, according to the Book of Revelation? Two hundred million mounted troops? Ancient serpents and giant locusts that sting like scorpions? A third of mankind killed? Blood rising as high as the horses’ bridles?”

“Molly, you’ve been reading the Bible.”

“Pretty horrific stuff, Revelation. The end of the world, directed by
Oliver Stone. I suppose Mordecai picked Jezreel, Texas, to settle down in because he expects some big battle to be fought there.”

“I’m sorely afraid there will be a battle,” Grady said grimly as he departed.

Molly buried her face in the pillow.

She tried to go back to sleep; it was only five-thirty, but Grady had fed the dog and left him outside, and now the wretch was barking. She got up to let him in, thinking about Hank Hanley, who, she was willing to bet, didn’t often have people thinking about him.

Molly had never been inside the new Salvation Army shelter. It was a huge, stark, red-brick fortress with pinched windows.
“Dedicated in 1987,”
said the plaque at the door,
“to the glory of God and service to humanity.”
Molly recalled that it had taken ten years of fierce wrangling over the location before God and humanity could be served on this run-down block at Eighth and Neches. Everyone in this laid-back and liberal town firmly believed in the cause the Sally served, but no one wanted to have it as a neighbor.

At the reception desk, a young man was watching a portable television. On the screen was the all too familiar profile of the Hearth Jezreelite compound in the background and a local reporter in the foreground.

To get the young man’s attention, she had to raise her voice. When he turned reluctantly from the screen, Molly asked, “Anything new happening out there?”

“No, ma’am.” He flicked the sound off. “You know what I think we ought to do?”

Molly had heard countless ideas on the subject in the past forty-eight days. Everyone had an opinion. She scanned the young man’s buzz haircut and earnest jaw and prepared herself for another SWAT fantasy. “What?”

“I think we ought to send in a Trojan horse.” He picked up a paperback book and showed it to her. The
Iliad.

“With a SWAT team hiding inside?”

“No. Angels. Well, really it would be the FBI, or maybe Delta Force, or Israeli commandos, but they’d be dressed up like angels so this Mordecai guy would think they’d come to fight Armageddon on his side. But under their white robes they’d have grenades and Uzis and all. They’d rescue the kids quick and put ’em inside the horse, which would be armored like a tank, and then they’d kill all those crazies and take the kids home to their mamas.”

“I like it,” Molly said, thinking it made as much sense as anything the cops had come up with. “Is Hank Hanley on your list for last night?”

He didn’t even glance at the list posted on the wall next to him. “No, ma’am. But he usually comes in for breakfast. If you want to wait, he’ll probably be along because we’re just starting to serve.”

“Do you know where he usually sleeps?”

“No. Hank likes to sleep raw—you know, out in the elements—rather than here. He says guys in the dorm are always trying to get into his pants.” He guffawed.

“Well, maybe they are,” she said.

“Wait until you see old Hank,” he told her. “Set yourself down over there and I’ll call you when I spot him.”

Molly chose a metal folding chair near the desk and watched the people coming in. Mostly men, they arrived in clusters of three or four. The majority appeared to be what you’d expect at the Sally—the truly down-and-out—but a surprising number looked like the middle class with a few wrinkles in their pants.

Three women came in carrying shopping bags, arguing in low voices. Molly watched them with fascination. She had been wanting to do an article on homeless women ever since she discovered how many women, herself included, harbored bag-lady nightmares. It seemed especially true of women who were going through a divorce or major life change. The three crones standing in the door arguing could have played the witches in
Macbeth.
She wanted to hear their life histories, see where they slept, follow them on their daily routines, photograph them. She wanted to know what they carried around in their bags.

The young man at the desk called to her, “Ma’am, here he comes.”

He walked in alone—a cadaverously thin man, stooped, with a grizzled gray-and-ginger beard. Her heart sank. This was going to be a colossal waste of time. He was the walking dead, a poster boy for the horrors that alcohol can inflict on the human body. Hank Hanley looked ninety-three, not fifty-three. His sun- and dirt-stained skin was so dry and wrinkled it looked mummified. He wore Levi’s that would have slid off his hips if two of the belt loops hadn’t been tied together with a shoelace. His stained white gimme hat said “Hard Rock Cafe—London.”

Molly rose. “Mr. Hanley?”

He reached up to take off his hat, but he missed it. On the second try he snagged the bill and lifted it off. Long ago someone had instilled in him some manners, and they were still there. “Ma’am?”

“I’m Molly Cates, Mr. Hanley. Could we sit down and talk for a minute?”

His sunken eyes darted around in confusion and his jaw quivered. “Do I know you, ma’am?”

“No. But I sure would appreciate it if you’d give me a few minutes of your time.”

“I ain’t done nothing wrong,” he insisted.

“Oh, no. I just want to talk.”

His darty eyes came to rest on her. “Not a cop.”

Molly chuckled. “Definitely not a cop. A writer.”

Hank raised a shaky hand to his beard. “A writer.”

“Yes. Maybe I could take you out to breakfast,” she suggested. “Is there somewhere around here you like better than this?”

He began to scratch furiously at his beard. “I like the House of Pancakes right well, but I … can’t—”

“I’d like to treat you. My truck’s up the street. We’ll drive.”

“Oh, yes, ma’am.”

“Molly,” she said. “Call me Molly and I’ll call you Hank.”

In the morning heat they walked to the truck and talked about the weather. It turned out that the weather was Hank’s best subject, something he was very much in touch with. Hottest spring in eleven years, he told her. Humid, more rainfall than average. More mosquitoes and fire ants than anyone could remember. Fleas something fierce.

As they crossed Eighth Street, she felt the urge to hold on to his arm, to protect him, so precious was he—the only living link to that old event. It was hopeless, of course. This wreck of a man was unlikely to remember his own middle name, let alone the details of finding a discarded infant more than three decades ago. Even if there was something to remember that wasn’t in the police report.

Inside the pancake house, the hostess took one look at Hank and bristled. She was slow in seating them, and when she leaned over to hand him a menu, her nostrils flared in protest.

After the waitress slapped down two mugs and poured them some coffee, Molly got down to business: “Hank, how’s your memory?”

He gave a creaky-sounding chuckle. “My memory, ma’am? Like a piece of Swiss cheese.” He took a long, loud slurp of his coffee.

“So’s mine,” Molly said. They both laughed, that rueful, knowing laugh people tended to reserve for the frailties of their own aging. “But there are some things that happened to me many years ago that were so unusual, so striking, that I will never forget them.” Molly tried to look into his dark eyes for a response, but they looked blank. “I bet there are things like that for you, Hank.”

“I remember my mama real good. And the day of my seventh birthday.”

Molly smiled at him. Maybe, just maybe. “Hank, a long time ago you were down by Waller Creek when a man found a baby. You remember? A baby boy floating in a beer cooler.” She watched his face.

Slowly his mouth opened, as if in wonderment. The few teeth left to him looked as if their days were numbered.

“I’d like you to tell me about that,” she said.

“A long time ago,” he said.

“Yes. Thirty-three years.”

“But how did you know?”

“You mean that you were there?”

He nodded.

“From the report the patrolman wrote, the officer who came and took the baby. You remember that? He took your name down.”

Hank nodded.

“Hank, please tell me about that day.”

“I didn’t do nothing wrong. I was just down there by the creek.” He set his dry lips into a firm line.

“I know,” Molly said. She paused, feeling herself inching out onto some thin ice. She needed to give him a reason for her questions, something to calm his anxieties. Of course, she couldn’t tell him the real reason. If she told him that the baby found that day had grown up to be Samuel Mordecai, it would be public within hours. She’d seen it happen before. This man sitting across from her would be selling his story to national magazines; he’d be an instant celebrity, get a new suit, go on
Oprah
and
Hard Copy.
If this lead was to turn into something with some bargaining power, it needed secrecy.

Molly Cates tried not to tell lies. She’d been reared by a father and an aunt who came down hard on the side of truth. When she did lie, she tried to be careful to tell only lies that would not be found out later. She also tried to restrict herself to lies she could rationalize as having some good purpose. As she concocted a story to tell to Hank Hanley, she was aware of how lie leads on to lie, and that this one was likely to be only the first of many.

“The reason I’m asking,” she said, “is that the baby grew up and now he’s a friend of mine and he wants to find his parents, his real mother. He asked me to help him.”

Hank licked his lips and said, “He grew up. How is he?”

“He’s good. A fine young man.” She was tempted to elaborate, but she stopped herself.

“What does he do?” Hank asked.

“He’s an accountant with a wife and two daughters. But you know how it is—he’s thirty-three now and he wants to find his real mama and
papa.” She thought about telling how he’d worked his way through college and played soccer, but she made herself quit there.

Hank’s eyes began to water. “An accountant. He was just a tiny little baby, so small.” He cupped his trembling hands to show how small the baby was. “He was wrapped up in this real shiny red blanket.”

“Yes. I have that blanket. Actually it’s a silk bathrobe.”

“Is it now? How about that. Just how about that …” Hank seemed to be coming to life, getting some animation in his voice. Maybe it was the coffee. Maybe it was remembering the event.

The waitress arrived to take their order. Hank, his eyes still watering, ordered eggs, hash browns, and a side stack of buttermilk pancakes. Molly ordered French pancakes with no orange sauce.

“Hank, would you tell me how it happened? Everything you can remember.”

“This ain’t gonna get me in trouble, is it? I don’t want no trouble.”

“Absolutely not.”

“Well, if it’ll help that young fella. An accountant, you say?”

Molly nodded.

“I never seen such a tiny baby, so small. I think he was just born.”