Chapter 8: Violence

Vanessa and I had been fortunate when it came to Walk and schoolwork. He was smart, which helped a lot. Not brilliant, not the Brain of Pembroke, but certainly intelligent enough to do well. More than that, he was a mostly conscientious student. He knew he should do the work and, usually, he wanted to.

We no longer felt the need to threaten him; he understood the consequences of disappointing us.

In addition, Vanessa and I checked his homework every evening. Well, as best we could. Some of the AP stuff was over our heads. But we still checked.

Not to say that he was angelic; the lad still had some teenage sass to him. One morning he gave out a mournful sigh. Vanessa played along, “What’s the matter, honey?”

World-weary tone, “Trying to figure out what women want is like trying to understand what the number seven smells like.”

I responded with my usual mature perspective, “Oh, suck a bag of dicks.”

Flynn almost choked on his coffee.

Vanessa said, “Walker, are you feeling any better these days?”

“Huh?”

She turned to Flynn, “He’s been suffering from a repetitive-motion injury.”

Flynn and Walk looked puzzled. I cleared my throat and made a jacking off gesture with my right hand. Walk flipped me the bird, “Repeat this.”

Flynn just smiled to himself.

This semester Walker was taking an elective course, Comparative Philosophy, which was giving him more trouble than any of us had anticipated.

As he so often did, he turned to us for guidance. We were all having a leisurely Sunday morning breakfast — Flynn at the griddle — when Walk said, “I have a paper coming up — 15,000 to 20,000 words.”

Vanessa, “What’s the topic, honey?”

“Mystery.”

I said, “Mystery? That’s it? Mystery?”

“Yeah, no guidelines. Except for the length. Griswald wants us to figure it out ourselves.”

I sat up, “Le mystère c’est moi,” and rattled off the names of some of my favorite mystery writers — Parker, Burke, Saunders, Crais, Westlake, et alia.

He didn’t scoff; the boy had been properly raised. But it was obvious that he thought I was off the mark.

Vanessa said, “How about the pyramids? How in the world were they even built back then? I mean, the Great Pyramid itself is over two million blocks of granite. And each one weighs over two tons. And think about the secret hieroglyphics, the still-unexplored tombs?”

“Well...”

Two perfectly reasonable suggestions, but Walk apparently wanted a third opinion. He turned to Flynn.

The Black-Irish New York cop from a huge family still surprised me from time to time. And not just in bed.

He said, “How about the black box?”

Walk perked up, “You mean like in airplanes?”

“That too. Like the flight data recorder and cockpit voice recorder.”

Walk drew out his “Okay,” not quite getting it. Me neither.

Flint, “They often contain answers, or at least clues, to why a plane crashed. But that’s just one example. Check out Trevor Paglen’s famous aerial photograph of the NSA compound in Fort Meade.”

Walk Googled and we looked over his shoulder. He said, “Two black boxes.” The shot was taken at night — two mirrored cubes with the surrounding grounds glowing with sodium lights.

Walk repeated, “Two black boxes.”

“That’s right. And those boxes contain so much of the information in the world. But look at how opaque, how impenetrable, the buildings are. In other words, the mysteries hidden inside are uninterpretable. Unfathomable to most of us.”

“Huh.”

“Then check out the Kaaba in Mecca. It’s Islam’s holiest site.”

Walk scrolled, Vanessa and I looked.

Walk, “Another black box.”

“It’s also known as al-Kaʿbah al-Musharrafah. Millions of pilgrims come during Hajj.”

Vanessa and I glanced at each other. Clint Callahan had had similar pockets of unexpected knowledge. I had to admit the photos were fascinating. That huge black cube standing outside, by itself, in the center of Islam’s most sacred mosque. There were thousands and thousands of worshipers in a circle around the Kaaba. They were all bowing toward the cube.

Flint pointed, “See that cloth draped over it? The one with the gold silk stitching?”

Walk leaned forward, “Yeah.”

“It’s called the kiswah, or death shroud.”

“Huh.”

“The embroidered words are Quranic verses. Written in gold.”

“Okay.”

Flint smiled, “The mystery is that centuries of votive exegesis haven’t been enough time to decipher it.”

I continued to believe that Mystery Writers I Have Loved would have been a superior choice. But that fucking death shroud wasn’t bad.

I looked speculatively at Flint. Guy deserved a treat. Vanessa nudged Walk and nodded toward me. He shook his head in mock disappointment, “God, we can’t even get through breakfast without Winter thinking about sex.”

Chin held high, I reached for Flint’s hand, “Come along, maybe you can think of something to do to me while I’m bent over, praying toward Kaaba.”

As we strolled away, I heard a smart-ass back at the table mutter, ‘No mystery about her box.” Vanessa giggled.

Heathens.

Clint Callahan came down to Kansas City. He’d been stymied in Minneapolis — dead-end after dead-end in his search for Benny Chang clues.

I booked him a room at the Rafael, but on a different floor from Flynn. Although it really wouldn’t have mattered; I had decided to stay out of Flynn’s bed while Clint was in town. No sense in rubbing his nose in it.

The three of us met with Daddy in my office. Clint brought us up to date on his progress. Or, lack thereof. “I met one last time with Doctor Ramona Ingersoll — she’s the department head for Religious Studies at the University.”

I said, “Anything new?”

Clint hesitated for a few moments, “No, not in the sense of a lead, a clue. But she has been communicating with a few of her colleagues around the country.”

He shook his head, “It’s intangible, like trying to corral smoke, but she’s become more uneasy about the Creed of the Apocrypha. Nothing tangible, but the rumors have been getting more ... intense.”

Daddy said, “Intense?”

“Like ... darker. The church militant, but without some of the standard guardrails.”

Flynn, “Darker? Like kidnapping-darker?”

“No, not specifically that. But the idea, the concept, didn’t seem all that farfetched to Ramona.”

I scrolled and lay my iPhone in front of the three men. Bobby Ray Guthrie, naked and spreadeagled in Flynn’s garage. I pointed to the close-up of his wrist tattoo. “Handsome Tony Gonzales recognized the symbol. P4948.”

The boys looked surprised; I had kept that little nugget to myself. Wanting to ... oh, I don’t know ... be the girl who cracked the case.

I said, “The letter and four numbers are how the Thoroughbred Racing Protective Bureau used to use lip tattoos to identify individual racehorses. In this case the P stands for the year of birth — 1986 or 2012.”

Flynn, “1986, that sounds about right for Guthrie. But what does 4948 stand for?”

I said, “My working theory is that it’s something to do with the Creed. But ... well, that’s as far as I’ve gotten.”

Clint said, “I’ll shoot this to Ramona — maybe it’ll mean something to her.”

It was a Friday evening; as usual, Vanessa was at Euforia overseeing the busiest dinner service of the week. Flynn Gallagher had arrived at the Wrigley via Lyft.

Walker was looking pretty fucking jaunty in his new blazer — dark green. Flynn was wearing the only jacket he’d packed — a navy blazer. He and I would match. We’d have a quick pop, and whip down to the Unicorn Club for dinner. Winter Jennings with two handsome escorts for the evening.

As for me ... well, I was in a devil-may-care mood. However, exercising the restraint for which I am justifiably celebrated, I did pull on a thong — skimpy and flesh-colored.

I smiled happily at myself as I slipped into my double-breasted navy blazer. Went through the three-button ritual — one inside, two outside. The mirror confirmed it — plenty of bare chest, a hint of a side-view of my boobs.

No nipple-sightings, not unless I shrugged my arms inward to billow out the jacket just enough. The question on the Unicorn’s audience would be the obvious one — was I stark fucking naked underneath?

I walked into the loft slowly enough for Flynn and Walker to check me out. Full approval, although the lad did try to disguise his own acclaim.

I led Flynn to our green leather sofa — a favorite haunt — and sat beside him, thigh to thigh. I turned to Walk, “Drinks, slave boy, on the double.”

He mumbled something about, “Double this,” which I ignored.

With Walk in the kitchen doing things with a pitcher, glasses, ice, and a tray, I lay my right hand on Flynn’s left thigh. Where I knew he dressed. I murmured softly, “I couldn’t decide — thong or commando.”

“And?”

“A gentleman wouldn’t ask.”

“No one accused me of that.”

I felt a stirring under his ivory slacks. I rubbed it, “Hmm, nice.”

He cleared his throat.

I soon had him fully erect, and was using my thumb and index finger to massage him up and down. It had been Vanessa’s idea to see how he’d react with Walk in the house. We also decided not to alert the kid — thus, it was a double-test, purely scientific. Two males, two reactions.

To Flynn’s credit, he didn’t look over his shoulder for Walker, he didn’t say a word, he certainly didn’t move my hand away.

Walker brought over a tray of Gibsons complete with pickled onion garnishes. By then, I had scooted Flynn’s boner up an inch or so, making the protuberance even more visible.

Walk, correctly, held the tray out to our guest first. He didn’t move his head and gawp as I stroked Flynn, but his eyes did a double-take before he carefully composed his face.

Rats! Both of them passed the exam. Or flunked, from my POV.

Walker sat down facing us, placed his feet on the table, and took a sip of his drink. All quiet on the Winter front so far as he was concerned. Despite my disappointment in not throwing him for a loop, I felt a little ping of maternal pride at his sangfroid.

Flynn, for his part, seemed perfectly at ease. He put his left arm around my shoulders in a companionable way. I changed from a two-finger grip to a full-palm press. It would have made a classic Candid Camera skit if either of them had reacted at all.

Curses!

In the elevator, Edwina was driving; no sign of Nature Boy.

Walker said, “Winter?”

“Yes, child.”

“Is all of your underwear in the laundry?”

I raised my chin and replied haughtily, “My personal effects are none of your beeswax.”

“Well, just so you know, your puppies are barking.”

Flynn snorted; Edwina announced, “Lobby.”

I sat between the boys in the backseat and again started massaging the bulge in Flynn’s slacks. No surprise, I exercised the restraint for which I am renowned, and didn’t grope Walk. Thought about it, though.

Again, no surprise, the Unicorn was hopping — the usual Friday-night celebrants. The three of us wound our way through the dining room, both boys holding hands with me. I tickled Walk’s palm with my middle finger; he squeezed back.

It was a wild kaleidoscope of an evening. We had two rounds of drinks before a table opened up. I noticed Bess had undone another button on her blouse when she spotted Walker. She bent down and whispered something in his ear.

He grinned like a fool, the fool.

Then she pretended to notice Flynn for the first time, “Stepping up in class, Winter?”

“Do try to remember your place in society.”

Then she spotted my hand rubbing Flynn’s inner thigh, “God, Winter, this is a respectable joint — get a room.”

Bess turned back to Walk, and whispered just loud enough for us to hear, “Has your mother always been a molester?”

Sad sigh, “You don’t know the half.”

Flynn just sat there, composed as fuck, letting the party swirl around him. Without our having ordered any food, Bess brought over a one-pot wonder — benne seeds, ground nuts, some sort of wild game. I stopped my under-the-table ministrations to concentrate on the wonderful flavors of the Gullah-Geechee cuisine.

And the food got Flynn’s attention. “Delicious. Is it West African?”

Bess was delivering another course and she answered, “Yeah, Benin. And our people in the Low Country just got some wonderful news.”

I looked at her; she wasn’t her usual flirty, sassy self. She was serious about something.

I said, “What news?”

“Emanuel Macron is going to start shipping back some of the looted treasures that France stole back in the 1890s.”

Flynn startled me, “When they overthrew King Behanzin.”

Bess stared at him, “How did you know that?”

He shrugged and managed not to look smug, “I read it somewhere.”

Bess was really excited, “The treasures will go to Ouidah, where the fucking Portuguese traded my ancestors. Put ‘em on slave ships.”

Walk was speechless; he’d had one vision of Bess, one that she’d encouraged, but he’d never thought about her ancestry, her roots. Actually, neither had I.

That conversation was a little blip in an otherwise boisterous night. I danced with both Flynn and Walk, both had full erections. Bess came by several times to flirt with Walker. And she also continued checking Flynn out.

Once when Flynn was visiting the Men’s, Walk looked around, about as stealthily as a 16-year old boy could, slid his hand under the bottom of my blazer. It was that kind of festive time. I may have parted my thighs slightly.

His fingers found my thong and he shook his head sadly, “You chickened out Winter. Again.”

I sat up straighter; we’ll see about that. I hooked my thumbs in the waistband, lifted my hips up, and relieved myself of the garment in question. Just as I was handing it to Walk, Flynn rejoined us, amusement written all over his face.

I blushed; it was probably too dark for anyone to notice, but I felt my cheeks grow instantly hotter. I tried to explain, “He dared me.”

Walk balled the thong up, placed it in an inside pocket of his jacket. He winked — the little fucker actually winked — at Flynn, “She’s officially commando now.”

Flynn pretended to strike a scholarly tone, “Is that unusual behavior for this particular specimen?”

The little rat nodded enthusiastically, “Yeah, she usually slips on panties or a thong when she wears one of her blazers.”

“But never a bra?”

“No, she’s good about that. Vanessa told me that Winter has the best tits in town.”

“No argument from me.”

The two of them sat there discussing me, Walker secretly gloating. Other patrons would glance over from time to time, but the general revelry remained high throughout the room.

The three of us made it home without being arrested for indecent exposure. Well, I guess I was really the only one at risk.

We had all agreed that Flynn would be the one to question Bianca Uribe about her ordeal. She hadn’t been molested, hadn’t been hurt, hadn’t even been threatened.

She had been held in some sort of bucolic area north of Kansas City. The state police had identified the stoner who had found her wandering along Highway 152. Which ran east to the town of Liberty where he dumped her at the emergency room.

Guy’s name was Lester Grove and he had a couple of traffic tickets outstanding, but was otherwise clean. The police kept him overnight and allowed Daddy to spend an hour or so with him. Nada.

Daddy said, “He tested positive for weed, but they didn’t find any in his apartment. Grove had done a decent thing with Bianca, and no one had any interest in pressing charges.”

Flynn hadn’t gotten too much more from Bianca. “Mainly she was furious. Her mother was terrified; Emilia doesn’t have Bianca’s spunk.”

“How did they get her from Binghamton to KC?”

“Sedated, by car. Drove straight through in a panel truck with no side windows. Two guys — Americans in their 30s — who didn’t talk much. She told me it was like a job to them. No anger, no emotion.”

“And at the farm?”

“They stripped her and put her in a room by herself. Bathroom door taken off. She never saw the two guys again. The woman in charge wore a white doctor’s coat. Was pleasant enough, but didn’t give Bianca a clue why they snatched her.”

Daddy said, “How did they sedate her?”

“Pills. A unique formulation of clonazepam and lorazepam. A dose at breakfast and one more at dinner.”

I said, “How did she manage to escape?”

Flynn, “She palmed two doses of whatever they were drugging her with. And the boss — Madam X — wasn’t there. The stooge who was watching the prisoners had fallen asleep.”

“But wasn’t she chained up, or tied or something?’

“One rope, a clothesline, around her ankle. She had enough mobility to get to the bathroom.”

“Her hands were free?”

“Yeah, the dope was the primary means of keeping her secure.”

I thought about that, “Well, the system must have been working — no telling how many victims they’ve had over the years.”

“Yeah. Bianca was lucky. And gutsy. Furious too, that helped.”

Bianca worked with a Kansas City police artist, one whom Daddy knew from past cases. So we had what Bianca believed were fairly accurate pen and charcoal portraits of her two kidnappers and the mystery lady.

Flynn flew Bianca and Emilia back to New York. The Harlem PD would make periodic checks on their apartment building, but none of them believed she was in any imminent danger. The snatch appeared to be random; the contract had called for a ‘spic chick’ and Bianca had been handy.

Flynn said, “She’d doing remote learning for the rest of the semester, then we’ll see. SUNY Binghamton is anxious to accommodate her needs. To keep her happy since she was kidnapped on campus.”

While Clint and Flynn were both in town, we ate dinner in our loft every night. Flynn had a rental car and ferried the boys back and forth from their hotel. While the dynamics could have been awkward — my ex-boyfriend and the current guy — I hadn’t expected it to go badly, and it hadn’t.

Clint had taken our split graciously enough. Both of us had recognized that the spark just wasn’t there anymore. And Flynn ... well, he was the opposite of a gloater. In fact, I doubt that the two of them even discussed me.

Then Clint heard back from Minneapolis, from that professor of religion, Ramona Ingersoll. He told us, “Okay, the Creed of the Apocrypha has nine church-centers around the country. Ramona thinks the tattoo — P4948 — she thinks that the first number could — maybe — indicate the location.”

Flynn said, “So, four. Can she pinpoint which one it is?”

“Not for certain. But her guess is that the first digit — taken in numerical order from one through nine — could be a calendar representation. The fourth Creed outpost was established in New York City.”

Flynn nodded, “Where the police still have Bobby Ray Guthrie in custody.”

Daddy said, “Where is number one?”

Clint, “Minneapolis. Actually, St. Paul.”

I said, “Eddie Nix.”

Flynn nodded, “Back in New York, he and Bobby Ray ran in some of the same circles.”

Daddy said, “What about the other three numbers? Nine, four, eight?”

Clint Ramona said, “Ramona said that it could be that Bobby Ray was the 948th recruit. Or member. But that’s just her guess. Speculation.”

I said what everyone was thinking, “Minneapolis. Or St. Paul. Eddie Nix. We need to talk with him.”

Flynn nodded, “He’ll be a tougher nut to crack than Bobby Ray. And neither of them has any connection to Kansas City.”

I said, “And there’s no known Creed presence here.”

Daddy, “Yet here is where Bianca Uribe was delivered. And the Creed — through Bobby Ray — knew about it.”

Clint looked at Flynn, “Tell us about Eddie Nix.”

“When he was in New York, he was respected. Wasn’t mobbed up, but was allowed to hang on the periphery. We never tied him directly to any mob hits, no airport jobs, no hijackings. But he was always around.”

Clint nodded, “Back in the day, he was a blip on the FBI radar. A person of mild interest, but we never had him connected to any specific case.”

Flynn, “When he left for St. Paul, he wasn’t on the run. No contract out on him. He just saw greener pastures. Easier pickings.”

Daddy, “And part of those pickings was the Creed of the Apocrypha.”

Clint, “Yeah. It started in St. Paul. It never has been a white separatist group, not overtly anyway. Although good luck in finding any black or brown members. Catholics or Jews either.”

Daddy, “How did it grow so quickly?”

“Ramona said that cults like the Creed and other fringe groups appeal to — and cultivate — single men who don’t have a family. The cult gives some structure to their lives. They aren’t necessarily losers ... more like fringers who feel left out. Believe that the elites look down on them.”

I said, “The Great Replacement?”

“Yeah. Minorities are stealing jobs, getting undeserved welfare. The universities, hell the entire public education system is geared against them. The movement seems to be more cultural than racist. It’s about cultural power.” Clint paused, “Now the Creed aren’t survivalists, not living off the grid.” He frowned, “Maybe they’re a new breed — urban survivalists.”