Speed Metal Blues: A Dan Reno Novel (21 page)

The man who answered was six-feet tall and scarecrow lean. He was perhaps fifty years old, and wore an old-fashioned frock coat, a western bolo tie over a white dress shirt, dark slacks, and black lizard skin cowboy boots. His face was pasty white and his steel-gray hair was slicked back, the ends curling behind the ears and falling below his collar.

“Ah, visitors,” he said.

“Are you Luther Conway?” I said.

“I am he, sir.”

“My partner and I are doing some research on local satanic groups. We understand you’re somewhat of an expert.”

He laughed as if delighted, his tongue red against his teeth. “Indeed, I am. Would you like to come in?” He held the door wide for us. “Welcome to my humble abode.”

We followed him through the marble-floored foyer into the gloom of the interior. Some of the walls were painted black, others red, and all were adorned with various images of the occult. The feel was not unlike a museum.

“Sit, be comfortable, gentlemen, please,” Luther Conway said once we reached his living room. We sat on an antique parlor sofa, which creaked uncertainly under Cody’s weight. A black rug lay beneath our feet, a red pentagram embroidered in its center. In the corner a Ouija board rested on a small table, illuminated from above by a pair of flickering silver candles. Between the candles was a poster of a green-faced Linda Blair from the movie
The Exorcist
.

“Let me guess,” Cody said. “Your favorite movie.”

“Oh, no, certainly not. Entertaining, yes, but a rather trite film.”

“I must have been eight years old when I saw it,” I said. “Scared the shit out of me, to be honest.”

“For the masses, yes, I suppose it was terrifying. The idea of Lucifer possessing the body of an innocent child.” Conway smiled wetly and gave a tiny shiver, the thought apparently bringing him great pleasure.

“Mr. Conway, I’ve heard you portray yourself as the son of Lucifer. Is this true?”

He winced, his face darkening, the skin shrinking against the bone and flaring with wrinkles. “That foolish notion was a rumor, propagated to harm me. You see, people fear what they do not understand.”

“What brand of Satanism do you practice?” I asked. “Church of Satan?”

“I did once. I consider myself nondenominational now.”

“The Church of Satan is pretty watered down, right?” Cody said.

Conway crossed his legs and brought his fingertips together. “The Church of Satan does not believe in the Prince of Darkness as an individual entity,” he lectured. “Its dogma revolves around the idea that modern society has a brainwashing effect, repressing individualism, forcing humanity to conform to values that render us irresponsible to our true selves.”

Cody and I shared a glance, and Conway eyed us dourly. “But I take it you’re not here to discuss the various philosophies of Satanism,” he said.

I leaned forward, my eyes fixed on Conway’s. “If a man new to the region, a devoted Satanist, was looking for fellow members, where would he go?”

“Well,” he said, a touch of pride etched across his features, “I may well be the only one left here who doesn’t hide his beliefs. Others as open as me have departed for larger cities where freedom of religion is upheld by the law.”

“I’m sure you’re not the only Satanist in the area,” I said.

“It’s a lonely endeavor, to be sure.”

“But not one entirely solitary, right, Mr. Conway?”

“I suppose…” he started, then his eyes pinched at the corners. “You know, you’ve not yet introduced yourself.”

“Dan Reno. Private investigations.”

“Ahh.” His eyes receded into his flesh, his thoughts turned inward.

I pulled a picture of Jason Loohan from my back pocket and handed it to Conway.

“Do you know him?”

He studied the sheet of paper for a long moment. “I’ve never seen him,” he said.

“Mr. Conway, this man is a known murderer who jumped bail. I believe he has likely sought out local Satanists. What I’d like to get is the names and contact information for every Satanist you know in Reno, Carson City, or the Lake Tahoe area.”

“And this is the purpose of your visit?”

“That’s right.”

“I highly doubt that would be ethical,” he said, his brow furrowed. “I will not be party to harassment or invasion of privacy.”

“You got any brewskis around this mausoleum?” Cody said.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Cause we ain’t leaving until we get the names and numbers. And I’m getting thirsty.” Cody stood and walked to where the Ouija board was displayed. He grabbed it and held it up near a lit candle. “These things are a crock of shit, right?”

Conway shot Cody a withering glare, then turned his eyes back to me.

“Sorry about my partner. He’s not a patient man.”

“I fail to see—”

Conway stopped short as Cody stepped to him and leaned down, pulling up his shirtsleeve to reveal his shoulder.

“You see these stitches, my friend?” Conway stared at the mass of muscle, his lips pursed as if a bad odor had invaded his nostrils. “They were made by a bullet meant to blow my brains out. The man who shot me happens to share your asinine religious beliefs. And being that there ain’t many of you devil-worshipping nutcases out there, we figure you probably know who did it.”

“That’s preposterous!”

“Which way’s your fridge?” Cody said, strolling out of the room, his hip grazing a blown glass skull on a thin, almost invisible plastic stand. The skull teetered and would have fallen if not for Cody steadying it with his fingertips.

Conway leapt from his chair. “Do you have any idea how expensive that piece is?”

“I’m sure you have many priceless treasures here,” I said, a smile on my lips.

Conway huffed, his hands on his hips, his pale complexion turning an unnatural pink.

“So this is how you do business? Invade innocent people’s homes and intimidate them into giving you what you want?”

“Sometimes, if that’s what it takes,” I said. “But we haven’t even got out of first gear yet.”

Conway sat back down as Cody reentered the room, a bottle of imported beer in his hand. He guzzled half of it and let out a tremendous belch.

“How utterly charming,” Conway muttered. “Fine. If it’s names you want, it’s names you’ll get.” I handed him my notepad and he began writing.

“Hey, Luther,” I said. “Don’t even think about bullshitting us. I’d hate to have to come back here.”

“And in return, I’d like your promise to not mention I’m your source for these names.”

“All right.”

We left Luther Conway after that. He glowered at us from the doorway as we drove off, his carriage gaunt, his stare rueful and menacing. Probably trying to save face, maybe a pathetic attempt to let us know we were lucky he cooperated. Like maybe we wouldn’t be as fortunate if we returned. I sat in the passenger seat studying the four names he’d written in sharp, precise penmanship, wondering if he’d made them up out of whole cloth, or if one might actually lead to Jason Loohan. One of the names was Greg Ruehr, the convicted vandal. But the name for his partner, Eric Wenhert, was absent. I put the list aside and decided to start with the address I’d found earlier for Wenhert.

“Get on 80 heading east,” I said. Cody hit the gas and soon we were on the freeway circling downtown Reno, the casino hotels jutting from the desert floor on our right, the distant flanks of the Sierras to our left. The mountain pass that doomed the Donner party faded from view as we left downtown behind, heading toward Sparks. Ten minutes later we exited the freeway and within a mile found the street we were looking for.

All the houses in the neighborhood were sprawling single story homes, the lawns green and mowed, the landscaping splendid, each dwelling an example of subtle but expensive suburban taste. A group of grade school kids were playing touch football in the street, and they politely moved to the sidewalk as we drove past. The Wenhert residence occupied at least half an acre on the broad avenue, its expansive yard shaded by giant maple and elm trees.

We parked and followed a curved brick path to the front door. I rang the doorbell on the frame of the stained oak door twice. No one answered. It was noon.

“Maybe out to lunch,” Cody said, but then the doorknob clicked. A blond woman, perhaps forty, peered out from the doorway. She wore no makeup, her face drawn, dark circles under her eyes. Her sweatshirt and baggy pants hid her figure for the most part, except for her breasts, which looked firm and large. Definitely fake, I thought. A small, fluffy white dog at her ankle looked up at us and wagged its tail.

“Mrs. Wenhert?” I ventured.

“Yes?”

“My name’s Dan Reno, and this is Cody Gibbons. We’re private investigators.”

Her eyes brightened a little and a small smile began at the corner of her mouth. “A couple private eyes, huh? Are you the hard-drinking variety?”

I said no and Cody said yes simultaneously.

“Looks like you’re outvoted, cutie-pie,” she said to me. “Y’all come on in.”

The interior of the house was spacious and decorated in earthy tones. A bouquet of purple flowers sat on a glass table in the entry, and watercolors of mountain scenery hung from the walls of the hallway. She led us into a large room where a muted television was tuned to a reality show. A bottle of Absolut vodka was on the coffee table, next to a half-full water glass.

“Please excuse me for a few minutes, you two. I wasn’t expecting company.” With that she walked out of the room and left us sitting on a crème-colored circular couch. I looked at Cody and shrugged. “I guess she’s the trusting type,” he said, then grabbed the remote control and began surfing the channels. I picked up her glass and tasted the clear contents. Straight booze.

“Barely noon, and I’d say she’s half lit. Come here, pooch.” I patted my leg and the little dog jumped up to my lap and rolled onto his back.

“That would make a nice picture,” Cody said, smiling as he watched me scratch the dog’s stomach. “The bounty hunter and his lap dog.”

Ten minutes passed. Then the rattle of ice cubes sounded from the kitchen, and a moment later the woman walked in and set a tray with glasses and a bottle of orange juice on the table. She’d done her face, lips red, eyes highlighted with liner and mascara, her hair combed out and falling around her shoulders. Now wearing tight jeans, high heels, and a clinging T-shirt.

“Help yourself,” she said, motioning at the bottle. She fell into an easy chair, sipped her drink, and batted her eyelashes.

“Well, don’t mind if I do,” Cody said, pouring himself a stout screwdriver.

“Mrs. Wenhert,” I started.

“You can call me Miss. I’m divorced.”

“Right. The reason—”

“You see, my ex-husband,
Doctor
Wenhert, saw fit to be banging his twenty-two-year-old secretary. So now he’s living with her, and I got the house.” She waved her arm and giggled.

“I see. Actually—”

“I mean, I’m not half bad myself, you know? At least the bastard did my boobs before he left me. Want to check these babies out?”

“If we must,” Cody said.

“Mrs. Wenhert,” I said again, but she ignored me and yanked up her shirt to reveal a pair of cantaloupe-sized breasts in a skimpy red bra.

“Not bad, huh? My husband had a thing for Pamela Lee Anderson.”

I tried not to stare too hard, but it was true Doctor Wenhert had done an excellent job.

“I’d say those are even nicer than Anderson’s,” Cody said.

She grinned drunkenly and took a healthy slug from her glass before pulling her shirt down.

“Ma’am, we’re here because we’d like to speak with Eric Wenhert,” I said.

Her smile vanished. “You sure know how to kill a buzz.”

“Sorry about that.”

“Eric was my son.”

“Was?”

“Yes.” She took a breath, then rested her eyes flatly on mine. “Eric hung himself three months ago. He’s dead.”

The words hung in the air like a toxic odor. “I’m sorry,” I said after a moment.

“I’m sorry for your loss, Miss Wenhert,” Cody added. Right out of the police training manual.

“Thank you,” she said, trying to smile, but I saw her lower lip start to tremble. I waited while she took another long sip from her vodka. She blew out a breath and blinked tears from her eyes.

“I know this must be very difficult, ma’am, but do you mind if we ask a few questions about your son?”

She shrugged. “I suppose.”

“I’m aware he was arrested a couple years ago for vandalizing churches. Was he involved in any other anti-Christian activities?”

She reached down and brought the dog onto her lap. “He was obsessed with the occult, with devil worship, for a time. But he had got away from that in his last few months. I really thought he might turn his life around.”

“Did he have friends, or associates, that were into Satanism?” Cody said.

“His best friend was Greg Ruehr. He was a real prize. He moved out of town about a year ago.”

“Anyone else?” I asked.

“Associated with Satanism? The only other one would be that sicko, Luther Conway.”

“Why do you call him a ‘sicko’?”

“Besides the fact he claims he’s the son of the devil? He’s also a pedophile.”

“Really? Has he been charged with molesting anyone?”

“I don’t think so, but when Eric was a teenager…”

“Yes?”

“Do I have to spell it out for you?”

“I’m sorry, I know this is painful,” I said.

“Painful? You want to know what painful is? Have you ever had children?”

“No, ma’am.”

“I didn’t think so,” she sneered. “You don’t look complex enough to handle it.”

“Okay,” I said.

“Try raising a child, giving him your unconditional love, giving him
everything,
then watching his life turn into an abomination, and there’s not a goddamn thing you can do about it. But you never give up trying, do you hear me,
never.
Not even when he chooses to have sex with an older man. Not even when he’s so messed up in the mind he embraces the devil as his god. Do you think you could handle that?”

Cody and I sat quietly, listening as her voice rose in intensity.

“Then I come home one day, into this big, silent house, and find him hanging from a rope in his room, his face bloated and white, and I touched him and he was cold, so cold…”