For Every Evil (20 page)

Rudy glanced at the oily heap. “Well, it’s … ah … good. Very … unusual. I’m sorry I can’t stay and have dinner with you, but I’ve got some studying to do. Besides, I stopped at Wasserman’s Deli on the way home from school for a cornbeef sandwich.”

“Heavy on the mustard,” added Sophie.

“That’s right.”

Bram looked from face to face. Finally he erupted: “I’m being humored!”

“No, you’re not, darling,” said Sophie, putting her arm around him and walking him toward the living room. She motioned for Rudy to take off. He gladly obliged, heading for the stairs. “I appreciate it very much when you want to try new recipes, Bram dear.”

“Don’t call me
dear.
You’re not the only cook in this family.”

“You’re absolutely right. You’re a fine cook.”

Bram grunted, stomping to the sofa and throwing himself down.

Sophie sat down next to him, returning her arm to his shoulder. “Have I told you lately what a sweet man you are?”

Bram grimaced.

“Oh, come on.” She gave him a kiss.

“Can’t you pick another adjective?”

She nuzzled his neck. “How about sexy?”

“You’re getting warmer.” He kissed her cheek. “Oh, well. You can’t hit a home run every time. Maybe we can give the stuff to Ethel.”

At the sound of her name being called, Ethel poked her head out of Bram’s study and began a slow lurch into the living room. She stopped just short of the sofa and slouched to the floor, heaving a deep sigh.

“Hard day,” said Bram, watching her lick her paw. “Her tennis ball got stuck under one of the living room chairs. She was standing — or I should say
sitting
— guard beside it when I got home. Probably never had a moment’s peace all day. I mean, you never know what kind of dastardly trick a tennis ball is going to pull.”

“Poor thing.”

“Yeah.”

The front doorbell sounded.

“Bram, tell me the truth,” said Sophie. “You didn’t invite anyone over for — ?”

“Hummus and pita? No. I thought I should try it out once before I went public.”

“Good thinking. I wonder who it could be.”

“One way to find out.” Bram stood and walked directly to the front door, peeking through the peephole. “Oh, shit,” he said, clenching his fist. “This is going to be our lucky night. I can just feel it.”

“What’s wrong?” called Sophie, following him into the hall.

Bram opened the door, nodding to Detective Cross and a uniformed policeman.

“Good evening, Mr. Baldric,” said the detective. His eyes traveled over Bram’s shoulder to the interior of the home. “I’d like to talk to you and your wife for a moment if I could.”

Bram stepped back and allowed them to enter.

“Detective Cross,” said Sophie, trying to cover the annoyance in her voice. What was he up to now? He had no business bothering them at home. She hadn’t found out anything from Rudy that he didn’t already know. “This is a surprise. Won’t you come into the living room?”

“No, thanks.” He opened his topcoat and lifted out a piece of paper. “I have a warrant here. We’d like to search your son’s room.”

Sophie was stunned. She’d never anticipated something like this happening.

“Is he here?” asked Cross.

“Yes,” said Bram, moving closer to his wife. “What’s this all about?”

“May we see the room?” asked the detective. He was polite, but just barely.

“All right.” Bram led the way to the stairs, with Sophie bringing up the rear.

Rudy had been given the bedroom at the opposite end of the second-floor hall. It overlooked the backyard, and had a nice view of the Washburn water tower. Up until last fall, it had belonged to Bram’s daughter, Margie. In September, she’d moved to St. Cloud with her boyfriend. It was a relatively small room, with a single bed, a desk, and a highboy dresser. In the months since his arrival, Rudy had added his own touches. Several theatre posters, a small stereo with a growing CD collection, and a brick and cedar bookcase.

Sophie knocked on die door. An Eric Clapton song was quickly turned down. “Rudy?’ She paused. “There’s someone here who wants to see you.”

“Just a sec,” he called. A moment later the door opened. Rudy’s smile faded when he saw who it was. “Oh,” he mumbled, squaring his shoulders. “What do you want?”

Sophie touched his arm. “Detective Cross would like to examine your room. He has a warrant.”

“No!” Rudy moved to block his entrance. “Don’t I have a right to some privacy?”

Sophie took the words like a blow. She saw the frightened look in his eyes. But what could she do?

Detective Cross pushed roughly past them into the room. The uniformed officer followed. “You can all stay if you want, but I must ask you to remain out of the way.”

Rudy squirmed away from Sophie and threw himself onto the bed.

The detective gave him a hard look. “Did you hear what I said?”

“I’m not in your way. I’m just sitting here. It
is
my room.”

The two policemen exchanged glances.

Sophie wished she knew what to do. She watched helplessly as they began their search. First the closet. Then the bookcase. Minutes passed. Everyone remained silent as the room was pulled apart.

“What are all those?” asked Cross, pointing to several stacks of books under the bedroom window.

“They’re plays,” said Rudy.

“He’s interested in the theatre,” offered Sophie, trying to be helpful. For some reason, even that small explanation made her feel like a traitor.

Rudy gave her a sullen look.

Finally, after everything had been thoroughly ransacked, the detective stood in front of Rudy and said, “Get up.”

“Why?”

“I want to check under the bed.”

“There’s nothing under there you’d be interested in.”

Why was Rudy doing this? thought Sophie. He was only making things worse.

“If you don’t get up on your own, I’m going to have Patrolman Peters here physically remove you. It’s your call.”

Rudy eyed the man who outweighed him by a good hundred pounds. Pressing his lips together angrily, he rose and stood next to the dresser. He kept his eyes on the floor.

Cross got down on his hands and knees and lifted up the bedspread. Carefully he pulled out a suitcase, and then a cardboard box, about a foot long by two feet wide. First he opened the suitcase. It was filled with religious material. A King James Version of the Bible. A Moffat version. The Greek New Testament. A thick concordance. A Harmony of the Gospels. A Bible dictionary. Two Bible commentaries. And several stacks of pamphlets. The one on top said,
The Book of Revelation Revealed.
Cross paged through a few of them. When he finally glanced up, he gave Rudy a long, measuring stare.

Rudy said nothing.

Sophie couldn’t stand the silence — or the misunderstanding that was no doubt forming in the detective’s mind. She knew how Cross must see this. Right now her son was being pegged as a crackpot, a religious nut. “Rudy comes from a very religious family. His father is a minister.”

“You read the Bible a lot, son?” asked the detective.

Rudy shrugged.

The detective lifted up a volume entitled,
Bible Archeology.
A bookmark stuck out of one end. As he opened it, he nodded, handing it to the patrolman. “Interested in ancient Egypt, are you?”

“I haven’t looked at that book since I did a paper in ninth grade.”

“Really?” Cross returned it to the suitcase.

Sophie wondered if Rudy could hear the condescension in the detective’s voice. For his sake, she hoped he couldn’t.

As the detective turned his attention to the cardboard box, Rudy made a move to stop him.

“Hold the kid,” ordered Cross, shooting a nasty look at the patrolman.

“Let’s just be cool now,” said the patrolman calmly. He gripped Rudy’s shoulder. “This will be over in a minute.”

Cross held up a series of black-and-white photos. “Did you take these?” he asked.

Rudy chewed his lower lip. “I did.”

“Who developed them?”

“I have a friend taking a photography class at school. He blew them up for me.” The way Rudy was fidgeting, he looked like a caged animal. Sophie felt terrible for him — not that she entirely understood. Why was he so nervous?

Cross paged through them. “Where were they taken?”

“At the Chappeldine Gallery.”

“And the man in the photos?”

“He’s a friend.”

“What’s his name?”

Rudy hesitated, but only for a moment. “John Jacobi.”

“Why’d you take pictures of this artwork?” He continued to leaf through the stack.

“I like them. They’re John’s mostly. I got a camera for Christmas. I was just trying it out.” He attempted to give the impression that it was no big deal, but Sophie could tell Cross wasn’t buying.

The detective stopped when he came to one particular photo. As he held it up, Sophie’s heart leapt inside her chest. It was a picture of one of the pastels by Ezmer Hawks. The sphinx with fire between its paws. “What’s this?” asked Cross.

Rudy’s eyes bounced off it briefly. “A pastel drawing. The artist is going to have a show at the gallery next month.”

“And why did you take this picture?”

“I don’t know. It interested me. What’s the difference?”

Cross returned it to the stack.

“Stop now, okay?” said Rudy, his voice almost desperate. “There’s nothing more in there that could possibly interest you.”

Sophie watched in frustration as Cross ignored him, flipping through the rest of the contents.

“Come on, now,” said Rudy, rubbing his hands against the sides of his jeans. “If you’ve got any more questions, just take me down to the station. I’ll answer anything you want.”

Slowly the detective’s eyes rose to Rudy’s face.

“Please!” he pleaded. “Just let’s go.”

“Take it easy, son,” said the patrolman. He tightened his grip on Rudy’s shoulder.

The detective glanced at Sophie, then at Bram. Finally he placed everything back in the box and closed it up. “We’ll need to take this downtown.” As he stood, he came eye-to-eye with Rudy. He stared at him for a long moment, saying nothing. Then, taking one last look around the room, he said, “We’ll show ourselves out.”

Bram followed them down the stairs.

After they were gone, Sophie leaned against the doorframe and closed her eyes. Her own tension had been so great, it was all she could do now to remain standing. She felt drained. Confused. Angry. How could they just barge in here and riffle through someone’s belongings? She knew it was the law, but it was a horrible violation. She had to say something to Rudy. Comfort him in some way. When she opened her eyes, she saw that he’d put on his jacket.

“Where are you going?”

“Out.” He bumped past her.

“But we’ve got to talk.”

“Not now,” he said as he rushed down the hall.

“But, Rudy! I have to know what’s going on!”

“Later, Mom. I love you. Don’t wait up.”

Bram sat behind the desk in his study, intently folding a paper airplane. He knew he should be working on the rewrites of a science fiction thriller he’d started several years ago, but his mind was elsewhere. When it came to disciplined writing, his mind was often elsewhere. Tonight, however, he had a legitimate reason. Sophie was in the kitchen, banging away at the pots and pans, attempting to make a chocolate cake. It was her way of releasing tension. After Rudy had bolted from the house, she’d seemed lost. Bram tried his best to comfort her, but what could he say? He didn’t understand the kid’s behavior any better than she did. How could he explain that photograph? Or the fact that Rudy had lied to the police?

He glanced up as he saw a movement in the doorway. Sophie was leaning against the doorframe, a spatula in one hand, a ticking timer in the other. She was watching him. She’d changed out of her green wool suit and heels, and was now wearing jeans, a red flannel shirt tucked in at the waist, and soft, brown suede boots.

“I heard the engine noise,” she said, nodding to the folded piece of paper on the desk. “I thought you might need a copilot.”

His smile was tender. “Always.”

“I’ve been thinking.”

“That can be dangerous.”

She sat down in his favorite comfy chair. “I can’t roll over and play dead just because Rudy won’t talk to me. I’ve got to do something.”

“Like what?”

“Well, here’s what I think.” She licked the spatula. “Hale’s past might just be the key. Since I know very little about the man, I’ve got to do a little research.”