Embrace the Wolf Read online

  Embrace the Wolf

  A Leo Haggerty Mystery

  Benjamin M. Schutz

  MYSTERIOUSPRESS.COM

  This one is for JoAnne:

  a comfort and a delight

  and the best thing

  that ever happened to me.

  The heart asks pleasure—first

  and then—excuse from pain

  and then—those little anodynes

  that deaden suffering.

  And then to go to sleep

  and then if it should be

  the will of its inquisitor

  the privilege to die.

  —Emily Dickinson

  Chapter 1

  Herb Saunders circled the phone like a dying animal does a polluted water hole: it can’t leave and it can’t drink. It had been almost three days since that first phone call. A frozen voice had said, “Mr. Saunders, I have your girls. I think it’s time we talked. I’ll be in touch.” Since then he’d been sitting by the phone. He even shit with the door open so he wouldn’t miss a ring. His wife, Maggie, hadn’t even commented on that. She’d seen so many of his phases it would take more than that for her to mention it. He was grateful and knew he should thank her. Anyone else would have had him committed by now, or left. She just went on day after day. Those days when he didn’t move at all she’d hold him periodically, kiss his forehead, and cradle him in her arms. Back then he truly believed that if he sat perfectly still he would hear the girls’ voices or see a vapor trail of their path. He just needed to get still enough. He never could.

  The girls had been gone now almost five years. First there had been a sick, spinning anxiety. This can’t be. Then ever so briefly “Goddammit, girls. I told you not to go over to Tammy’s. To tell your mother where you’re going. When you come back, so help me …” They never did come back. When it was clear that this was no random accident, no vagrant illness, that someone had done this on purpose, an inexhaustible engine of rage fired up in Herb Saunders. His motor had raced on undiminished since that moment.

  There had been nothing for so long. The cranks and nuisance loonies had stopped calling long ago. Life moved on for everyone else. There had been the psychics too. “I see your daughter at a taco stand in San Antonio. Please send five hundred dollars for the address.”

  For the longest time he wondered how Maggie endured, but he never had the guts to ask her. He was always afraid she’d start to explain and lose it. It would just fly out of her mouth. He’d made it this far by never grieving, never touching that cold lump of sorrow he knew was surely there somewhere. All the therapy with Dr. Prentice hadn’t changed a thing. He’d told Prentice that insight wasn’t all it was cracked up to be. He knew exactly where he was: the intersection of Hell and Vine. And he knew exactly how he’d gotten there. Someone had taken his life, put it in the shit machine and turned it into garbage. Acceptance was a word he had never learned, and this lesson too was lost on him.

  Saunders was getting double vision staring at the phone. Fed up, he screamed, “Call, you son of a bitch, call!” Then softer he said, “Don’t do this to me. Not now. Not after all this time.” The trace was still on the phone line. It was a Perpetual. The first call had been a local one. The switching station had been identified. If the same line was used, the exact exchange and location could be pinpointed. And then Herb knew they’d talk. Only first he was going to reach down the stranger’s throat and rip his tongue out. The coldness of the voice he’d heard had convinced him that this was the man. Who else would remember the number? Catchy as it was: KID-LOST.

  Every black hole disgorges itself somewhere into the universe. It’s cosmic plumbing: out the black holes and in the white holes. The end of the universe is its beginning. An immense Möbius strip. Herb refused to believe that thermodynamics was going to be revoked just for him. If they left here, they’d have to show up somewhere, someday.

  He stood up, stretched his legs, and went to the window. Peeking out he confirmed that suburbia was still there and Maggie was still at work. Well, he thought, somebody had to. He was a hell of a breadwinner. Breadwinner? Not even a crumb-catcher. He couldn’t even get it together to get welfare.

  The phone rang. He couldn’t believe it. He’d conjured up the ring in his mind for so long he thought he was imagining it again. No, it was real. He picked up the phone and put it to his ear. The iceman came on.

  “Mr. Saunders?”

  “Yes.”

  “I have someone here who wants to speak with you.”

  “Tina? Molly?”

  A plaintive voice came on. “Daddy?”

  “Yes, baby.” There was silence. “Baby?”

  The phone erupted with a shriek, “Daddy! Help me!”

  A scream filled the phone. It went into him like an ice pick in the ear and rose in a wave without crest. The iceman’s voice came back on.

  “The other one does not speak anymore. Have a good day.”

  “Tina? Molly? Tina! Molly!”

  Nothing. Gone. The end. He slid down the wall to the floor, the dead receiver in his hand.

  “Oh my babies, what’s happened to you?”

  Spastic with horror, his feet were twitching to get him away. The phone fell. He saw trolls, demons, racks, fire, evil hoses, electricity. Eyes kept coming up at him, all with a shrieking soundtrack. Girls. Babies. Children. He could not, would not see their faces. They called out to him. “Do not call my name,” he screamed. They cried “help me.” He was on all fours, puking a pain he could not disgorge, a nightmare he could not flee. He fell over on his side, panting—an animal dying on the roadway. Still twitching, he wiped his mouth. The phone lay there making its own noisy death rattle. Get hold of yourself, he thought. You stupid shit, don’t fold up now. Get moving. React. Act. Do something.

  He got up and slid into the chair. First, a deep breath to calm himself. To do what he knew he needed to, he had to sound calm, controlled, uninvolved. As he dialed the number he wondered, Why wouldn’t the holes sit still?

  “Security Office.”

  “Yes, this is Sergeant DeVito, on the Saunders’ case. You have a trace on that line. We need the number immediately. A child’s life is in danger.”

  “Yes, officer. And your badge number?”

  “335. Hurry. Please.”

  “The line was silent. He prayed, Don’t let him get away. Not again. Not this close. Thoughts floated up about that Italian kid in the well. The man hanging upside down in that hole, trying to handcuff him. His wrist was too small. He kept slipping through. He just couldn’t hold him. The boy died calling for his mother three hundred feet away. So close. All that love, all those people. Nothing. Just a shaft into the earth big enough for a boy to fall into and a wrist too small to hold on to.

  “Sergeant DeVito, this is Supervisor Ramsey. It’s been quite a while since we had any action on the Saunders’ tap. I’m sure everything’s in order, but we have no current paperwork on that tap. I hope you understand. We haven’t had official verification from your captain of your reassignment to this case, and we can’t reveal this information to anyone but the officer assigned.”

  “Ma’am, I appreciate your conscientiousness and it’ll not go unreported. But this is an emergency. We need that address now. A child’s life is at stake. I’ll take the responsibility on this myself. If you look at your old papers there, I was on this case from the very beginning. You don’t want to cause a delay here that could be tragic. I’ll take responsibility, I assure you.”

  Silence. Herb wished he was clairvoyant: what’s the screw to turn to get you to do what I want? I’ll do it. I’d do anything to get my babies back. Anything.

  “All right. The number is 555-3329.”

  “Thank you.”

&nb
sp; He knew he had to move fast. If they called the station to confirm all this, DeVito would know. He’d be there in no time. He wasn’t about to let them handle this. If you want something done right, do it yourself. No one else cares as much. They’re my babies. My kids. I’ll get them back. He swore it. He remembered the first time. The description of the car and the girls was everywhere. Porterfield let them go right through. He thought they were sleeping. He hadn’t read his reports yet. He was going to at the Little Tavern. Not again Saunders swore. ‘They are my kids. Mine. I’ll get them back. Nothing will stop me. I swear it! Tina. Molly. Do you hear me? I’m coming. Daddy’s coming!’

  Chapter 2

  I was watching my favorite workout show. Not doing it, mind you—just watching. Some lissome lass from L.A. was telling me “Three more, two more, one more, now switch to the other hand.” I checked my lap. Best exercise program I’d ever seen. Gets my heart rate up to one hundred twenty for twenty minutes just sitting still. I’d run my two miles and done the stadium steps over at Falls Church High just to warm up for this. The phone rang.

  “Hello. Leo Haggerty.”

  “Mr. Haggerty, are you the Leo Haggerty that’s a private detective?” A woman’s voice.

  “I was the last time I checked. What can I do for you?”

  “Well, I have a problem. Before I go into it, I’d like to ask you some questions, okay?”

  “Sure. Let me just get a cup of coffee. Be right back.” I went over and poured myself a cup. What the hell. I’d been interviewed by prospective clients before, so this was nothing new. Her voice was interesting: polite, restrained, controlled, and controlling. I felt like a big dog being calmed.

  “Okay. What would you like to know?”

  “As a detective, do you have a specialty, Mr. Haggerty?”

  “Mostly I do missing persons work. Kidnappings, child snatching by parents, missing heirs, witness location, what have you. I do some background investigations, but not much. I’m bonded so I do some courier service work and some bodyguarding. That about covers it.”

  “Are you any good, Mr. Haggerty?”

  “Well, since you put it that way, Ms.—I didn’t get your name.”

  “I didn’t give it and unless I decide to retain you, I won’t.”

  “Okay. Am I any good? Good question. Yes, I am good. I’m very good. Sometimes that still isn’t enough and I’d like to be better yet. Was I recommended to you, or did you get my name out of the phone book?”

  “You were recommended to me, and very highly. Your reference said you would answer that question just about the way you did.”

  “It’s nice to be predictable.”

  “That, I’ve been told, you are not. Why are you good, Mr. Haggerty?”

  “Why am I good? I don’t know. I have a face like a microphone. Everybody wants to talk into it.” I continued to tick off my lustrous virtues. “I’m persistent as hell. Not out of duty, mind you. I’m just that way; loose ends drive me crazy. I check everything out. Twice. Then once again. Also I’ve got a pretty good imagination. Comes from a childhood as a chronic liar. I can explain anything. At one time or another I’ve probably tried to. Nothing’s too bizarre to try out as an explanation. Basically, I turn up things other people miss and imagine possibilities other people don’t. Sometimes that’s all it takes. But then I never found Amelia Earhart either.”

  “Do you have any children, Mr. Haggerty?”

  This was a line of questioning I’d never heard before.

  “No.”

  “Are you married?”

  “No.”

  “Have you ever been?”

  “No.”

  “Ever been in love?”

  “Too often.”

  “Please be serious. I assure you I am.”

  “Yes. I wasn’t very good at it so I retired from the game. Rather, semiretired.”

  “What are your fees, Mr. Haggerty?”

  “Three hundred and fifty dollars a day plus all expenses.”

  “Do you ever take a case for reasons other than money?”

  I hate this kind of phone call. Every try to pay the rent with quince jelly?

  “I try not to, especially when my bills are due. But if I can pay my bills I try to be imaginative about my fees. I’ve been known to barter services, for instance. The first thing is, what do you want me to do for you, and how long is it likely to take?”

  She took a moment to decide if I was what she needed.

  “Do you know the names Herbert and Margaret Saunders? Tina and Molly Saunders?”

  Oh shit. “Yes I do. What can I do for you?”

  “I’m Margaret Saunders. My husband has disappeared. I want you to find him for me. Please. Can you come out to the house today? Perhaps now?”

  “Give me about an hour. It’s Bethesda, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, let me give you directions.”

  “That won’t be necessary. I grew up not too far from your house. I’ll see you in about an hour, Mrs. Saunders.”

  Chapter 3

  I showered and dressed. Sigourney Weaver was on a talk show. I lingered at the knob before I turned it off. I’ve asked for her in my Christmas stocking for four years now. The closest I ever got was a tape of Alien from a girl who was sick of watching me moon over her.

  I backed the Camaro out of the driveway and headed around the Beltway to Bethesda. The Homeland. I’m a rare bird in this town: a native, born and raised. Let me tell you this is one strange town. Like a snake, Washington sheds itself every four years. Everybody in goverment which is the biggest game in town, is just passing through. They can run the country, but not the city they’re staying in. To them, D.C. is just a giant motel, not a home. They make a mess of things and then move on. The maid’ll be in to clean up.

  I crossed the Cabin John Bridge into Maryland, got off at the River Road exit, and took a left onto Windbreak Lane. A leggy redhead jogged by plugged into her Sony Walkman. I hate those things. The middle class ghetto blasters. In Anacostia it’s “it’s in yo’ ear motha fucker.” In Bethesda its “What did you say? I can’t hear you.” It’s just as narcissistic, only better behaved. The cold shoulder is connected to the flying finger.

  I rolled slowly down the quiet tree-lined road. Welcome home. The Golden Ghetto. The promised land. I grew up here. These days I spend a lot of my time here or in Potomac or McLean. They can afford me. It won’t be long before I’ll be looking for the children of my classmates. The ones who made it back. Inflation rose faster than our aspirations or achievements, and few of us will live in the style we were accustomed to. I guess the kids I’ll be looking for will be a lot like I was. There’s a sinister dream here on these well-tended lanes: the dream of a place in time and space where you’ve “got it made” and you’re “happy ever after;” that there’s a formula of designer labels, prep schools and country clubs, acreage and address that will immunize you from pain and loss.

  To some kids that elixir’s still castor oil because this isn’t their dream. This is the springboard for them. The given from which they’ll fashion their own dreams. Their parents can’t understand wanting something other than what they’ve struggled their whole lives for. So the kids turn the dream on its ear. They know what they don’t want and little else. So they get drunk on the Chivas, smash up the Mercedes, steal from Bloomingdale’s, flunk out of Landon, and hang themselves with alarming frequency.

  I did all but the last. That’s why I don’t live here. It took my father ten years to get over the disappointment, but he did. Better late than never.

  The house was typical Bethesda. A quarter acre for a quarter of a million dollars. Mature, well-tended trees. This was an older neighborhood. Maybe from the early sixties when the Beltway was built. With that concrete circle around the city allowing easy access anywhere, people spilled out as if the city had been unzipped. Thus was suburbia born.

  I sat in the car thinking about the Saunders case. It was one of the most famous ones in Washington h
istory. The biggest manhunt in years. Complete with grand foul-ups. What was the cop’s name? Porterfield. He let them right through his fingers. Saunders tried to kill him one night in a bar. Damn near beat him to death. What a mess. Twin girls. How old were they? Seven? Eight? They’d gone down the street to go swimming at a neighbor’s pool. Never seen again. I remembered the poster. Everywhere. The television pleas. I couldn’t watch them. Well here we are. Time to go in.

  I closed the door and looked up at the house. All the windows covered, no eyes outward. A house turned in on itself. I didn’t want to go in. I felt like I do when I have to use a roadside rest room. You know it’s going to be bad; it’s just a question of how bad.

  The door bell was a jangling electric buzz. After a long count it opened. A petite woman stood there. Her presence seemed as precarious as that of a leaf in a storm: holding on tenaciously in the wind, but just barely. I wondered if it was the translucence of her skin, the fineness of her hair that did it. She looked as if she might just wink out in an instant. Her body was stiff. Composed. Composure dearly bought. Just like her speaking voice on the phone.

  “Mrs. Saunders. I’m Leo Haggerty. May I come in?”

  “Please. I’m sorry. I thought for a second it was Herb coming back. But he wouldn’t ring the door bell, would he?”

  She waved me in. The house was almost unfurnished. What there was was strictly functional and not very expensive.

  She saw my eyes move around the room and began an oft-repeated and unnecessary explanation, “After Herb lost his job, we really couldn’t afford to live here. For a little while we made do by selling a lot of our belongings. Then even that wouldn’t do it. Now we’re here by the bank’s graces. We pay what we can. We can stay here until the girls return. That’s what they said. We told them we couldn’t leave. What if they come back and we’re not here? They’re only twelve, just children you know.”

  A lifetime vigil. A lighthouse on the river Styx waiting for a boat, a cloaked ferryman, and the first ever return trip from the far shore.