They

by J. F. Gonzalez

  Vince looked at Frank, who didn’t meet his gaze. He turned back to Mike. “How could you know this if Jesse never told you anything?”

  “It all came out during my therapy,” Frank said softly. He looked at Vince. “Trust me, I went through a lot of regression therapy. My earliest memory was when I was three, which corresponds to around the time Mike is telling you about now. Only my earliest memory is of San Francisco, after we moved there. Not Los Angeles. I had to be taken back through my memories to remember what…I saw my mom doing.”

  A worm of unease began to gnaw at Vince’s belly. He took a sip of iced tea.

  “Gladys didn’t move to the Bay Area until she left Jesse. I was the first person Jesse called when Gladys left. He was scared and angry; he didn’t tell me anything about Gladys having affairs, or anything else that had been going on. Just that they’d been having problems again and that she left. He tried to get Frank from her, but Gladys won a court order placing Frank in her custody. She was also pregnant.” Mike lapsed into silence for a moment and Vince felt his heart pounding. She was also pregnant.

  He glanced at Frank, who didn’t return the look. Frank sat motionless, stony faced. He looked like he’d heard this story many times, but hearing it again was just as gruesome as hearing it for the first time. Vince swallowed a lump in his throat and tuned back in to Mike’s narrative.

  “She moved to the Bay Area, taking Frank with her. He’d just turned three.” Mike spoke slowly, his voice lowered. “She went to San Francisco with a group of people she’d met in L.A. They settled into the Haight Ashbury scene quite easily, and it was there they met core members of The Children of the Night, who had infiltrated the hippie scene very successfully.” He paused. “They got Gladys into the group somehow and this was where she met your mother, Maggie Swanson.”

  Vince didn’t feel anything as Frank took over briefly. “From what we’ve gathered, Maggie got involved with the group from a guy she met at UC Berkeley, a guy named Tom McDonald.”

  The name clicked and Vince placed the name with a face. That smiling Dad Face of his youth in California. “My dad.”

  Frank nodded. “We don’t know if he was your real father or not. There were a lot of orgies and love-ins going on at the time. Plus, about a year before you were born your mother and other members of the group went on a spiritual pilgrimage to the Middle East. They were there for almost a year. It’s possible you weren’t even born in this country; we haven’t been able to pinpoint your exact birthplace. If your mom became pregnant with you there, your father could have been one of the male members of the group. But anyway, that’s where our mothers met, at one of these gatherings that was, in reality, a Children of the Night meeting. They encouraged the orgiastic behavior, the drugs. It was hippie heaven.”

  Mike picked up the narrative. “Gladys fell in hard for Maggie and Tom. They became lovers, and with her drug use so high she wanted to be a part of them. Maggie and Tom were already pretty ingrained in the cult and they brought Gladys in. They…I don’t know how to say it, but… they had some kind of spell over her. Made her believe that the coming of Armageddon was near and that they were on the winning side.”

  Frank nodded. “She was also most likely brainwashed into believing that their dedication and worship of Satan was, in a way, a glorification of God as well. Because if God had this whole scenario planned out beforehand as prophesized in the Bible, then they figured that serving the Prince of Darkness wouldn’t be bad…they’d be essentially doing their part to fulfill Biblical prophecy.”

  “But this group took things a step further,” Mike explained just as he was interrupted by a voice announcing over the intercom that their pizza was ready.

  Frank rose to get it and after he came back and they’d served themselves and begun eating, Mike continued. “I’d like to focus on another group for a minute. The End Times Church believed that Jesus, God, and Satan should be equally recognized. One does not exist without the other. In time, members began to focus on certain aspects of the religion; some were devoted followers of Jesus, others concentrated on Satan. The hub that connected them was that they believed in the literal prophecy of Armageddon as prophesized in the Book of Revelations. They also saw themselves as playing key parts in it. It was around 1966 or so that the Satanist sect broke off from the original church in an effort to wholly worship evil and bring about the coming of the Anti-Christ. The Black Cross has been credited with being this splinter group that broke away from the End Times Church. There’s no real hard evidence the Black Cross exists now. Through the research Frank and I conducted, we’ve come to learn that the Black Cross was merely a front group for an older organization.”

  “The Children of the Night,” Vince said.

  “Yes,” Mike said. “The Children of the Night had infiltrated the End Times Church early on. By the time they initiated the break, their goals were more solid thanks to their leader, a middle-aged wealthy business tycoon named Samuel F. Garrison. They didn’t just see themselves as overthrowing Christianity, they now saw themselves as going into battle with God, who they perceived as being not only weak, but also a blind idiot god who was indifferent to his creations. Their goal was to play a key part in the Battle of Armageddon.”

  “You mean as in, actually participating?” Vince asked between slices of pizza.

  “Yes,” Mike was eating slowly too, and he chased a mouthful down with a swallow of iced tea. “Their goal became clear: the total destruction of the Christian Church and the return of Satan to his rightful domain: earth.”

  There was silence for a moment as Vince digested this bit of information. He ate his pizza, mulling it over. Frank didn’t say anything, concentrating more on the food in front of him. After awhile, Vince voiced a question. “Where do Frank and I come in?”

  Mike traded a glance with Frank, and Vince thought he caught a faint sign of wariness there. As if an unspoken message passed between them. Do we tell him everything? No, I don’t think so. Vince was about to open his mouth to say something but decided against it.

  “We don’t know where you and Frank come in,” Mike said. “That’s what we’re trying to find out now.”

  “What happened to Frank’s sibling?” Vince said, already having a feeling what the answer to that would be but wanting to hear it aloud.

  Mike glanced at Frank again, who didn’t return his gaze. Frank kept eating, concentrating on his food. Mike leaned close to Vince and whispered: “This is still hard for Frank to deal with, so I’m going to whisper it in your ear. Okay?”

  Vince nodded, the dread blossoming in his stomach.

  Mike leaned closer to Vince.

  Frank didn’t look up from his plate as he ate. His features were stony.

  Mike began to tell him.

  Vince stopped chewing. He listened to the atrocity. The initiation. The offering ending in sacrifice.

  Three-year old Frank being present as his newborn sister was ritualistically murdered on a dragon-shaped altar in a large, dark room. Looking through the eyes of three-year-old Frank Black as the cultists swarmed over the body and tore it apart in an orgy of death.

  Vince felt a black wall loom before him. He closed his eyes, squeezing out the pain he felt. When he opened them Mike was back at his spot at the table, pouring himself another glass of iced tea. Frank was still eating, head down, not looking up. Vince stole a quick glance and saw now why Frank had built up such a strong layer of armor around him. His shell was thickened by what he’d seen and experienced as a toddler. Not to mention what he’d went through after he got out of his family situation.

  Vince turned to the slice of pizza sitting on his plate. He picked it up and bit into it, chewing slowly, savoring the taste. He felt like the inside of his skull and innards had been carved out.

  They ate in silence for a while. As he ate all he could think about were the atrocities that had been described to him. Human sacrifices, satanic rituals, all in the form of black-cloaked adults grouped aro
und an altar in a candle-lit room, chanting softly, their voices rising reverently. The fact that such people would believe such bullshit and follow it was one thing; Vince had always held a low opinion of religion in all its forms, probably because of his own strict religious upbringing. He’d become an atheist early in life, based on his own intellect and reasoning. He found the Christian God just as unbelievable as the Muslim God Allah, the Jewish Yahweh, the Hindu God of Life, and the various sects he’d heard about through word-of-mouth, the occasional television show or the printed word. His knowledge of the occult was minimal. He knew the Christian version of what the occult was supposed to stand for, and who Satan was supposed to be and what his purpose was. As far as educating himself from a layman’s point of view on the Devil, he hadn’t done a very good job of it. Why educate yourself on a segment of Christianity if you felt that Christianity, not to mention all religion, was non-existent, all created by man to fulfill some Jungian need for spiritual belief?

  There was one thing that bothered Vince, and that was the extreme nature of the story Frank Black and Mike Peterson just told him. If such an underground organization existed, wouldn’t they have been exposed by now? Surely somebody would have run to the police. Vince wondered why nobody had spilled the beans yet; somebody always talked: mafia hit men, royal family members, mistresses to the stars and high ranking politicians, members of highly organized drug cartels. Somebody always talked and was eventually rewarded richly for their story.

  Vince finished his last slice of pizza, reflecting on this. Frank had already finished, wiped his hands on a napkin, and risen to his feet. “Be right back.” He headed out of the booth toward the restrooms.

  When he was out of earshot, Mike wiped his mouth with a napkin. “Hearing about what happened to his sister still affects him, even though he only remembers the ritual through his therapy sessions.”

  “I can understand why,” Vince said.

  “Things got worse later,” Mike said, slipping back into the narrative. “Gladys became deeply ingrained in the cult, and became especially devoted to Samuel Garrison. Frank’s told you about him already, I take it?”

  “Yes,” Vince nodded. “The Head Devil.”

  “Samuel Garrison comes from pure European stock,” Mike explained. “His father’s family can be traced back to medieval England, his mother’s from Spain, and some of her ancestors settled in Mexico during the Spanish Conquest of Mexico and parts of the Southwestern United States. We have reason to believe his grandmother became involved with a group of devil worshippers in the Yucatan valley as a teenager. When Sam took control and resurrected The Children of the Night in 1966, the nicknames just became attributed to him.” Mike took a sip of his iced tea. “Gladys became a sort of sex slave to Sam,” Mike continued, speaking slowly and softly. “Frank was very well taken care of during these years, I might add. Sam took care to make sure all the children were taken care of.” He eyed Vince. “I don’t know why Sam insisted the children be well taken care of, but one thing we’ve found out is that this wasn’t happening in Frank’s household.” He shot a questioning glance at Vince. “Do you remember your folks ever mistreating you?”

  Vince shook his head. “No. Not at all. Except for my dad yelling at my mom and me in the last year we were in California and throwing things around…nothing out of the ordinary.” Vince shrugged. “I just always chalked that up to whatever stress he might have been going through. A young guy with a wife and a kid and a demanding career. You know?”

  Mike nodded. “To make a long story short, Frank attended rituals between the ages of three and five, rituals he remembers you being in attendance at as well. Frank stayed with the group until Child Services Authorities took him out of the house in 1973. He spent the rest of his youth in various foster homes and his Aunt Diane’s until he left home at sixteen to move to Hollywood. You know the rest.”

  “What’s the purpose of your investigation, though?” Vince asked. “You’re connecting all these dots, gathering information…for what? You plan on writing some kind of tell-all book or something?”

  “I have a trusted friend,” Mike began. “A lawyer who used to work for my friend John’s law firm. His name is William Grecko. I’ll get to John’s story shortly, because what happened to him factors into everything we’re telling you. Needless to say, Bill knows I’m researching something that is big. I haven’t given him details for his own protection. He has a vast network of connections with law enforcement at various levels; state and federal, including FBI and CIA, as well as prosecutors across the country. We almost have enough to take to him now. Your mother’s murder has changed things.”

  “How?”

  “It’s added an element in our investigation that requires further work,” Mike answered. “Finding you was important. If we can gather enough circumstantial evidence based on your memories and whatever physical evidence your mother may have preserved, such as old diaries or photos from those years—”

  Vince shook his head. “I don’t remember any old photos from our years in California.”

  “She might have kept them hidden from you.”

  Vince shrugged. “Maybe.” It was possible, but Vince didn’t believe his mother would have held on to mementoes from her so-called “life as a sinner.” “Do you think this friend of yours, this William Grecko, has the connections to launch a formal investigation?”

  “He not only has the connections, he can pull the right strings and do it discreetly,” Mike said. “I have confidence that within hours of turning over everything we’ve uncovered to Billy, key members of The Children of the Night will be in federal custody and this case will be blown wide open in the media.”

  “You have media connections too?”

  “Frank does. We plan to turn the same information over to his contacts at the LA and New York Times, as well as CNN.”

  “Before or after you turn it over to Billy?”

  “Simultaneously.”

  Vince took a sip of his iced tea, looking up as Frank walked back into the realm of conversation and slid back into his seat. He looked better; his face was less flushed, more alert.

  Mike looked up at Frank. “Did you two have anything in mind for this evening?”

  Vince didn’t know this evening was in the equation. He figured on going home and learning more about his forgotten past from Frank. Mike’s question suddenly put the older man into the equation, too. Vince shrugged. “Actually, I just thought Frank and I were going to hang out at my place. Are you interested in joining us?”

  “If I may,” Mike said. “There’s still more you need to know, and I’d like to see for myself just how safe you and Frank are.”

  “We’re safe,” Frank said softly.

  “I’ll be the judge of that,” Mike said.

  FOR THE FIRST time in his life Vince Walters wished he owned a gun.

  He lay in the king-sized bed he used to share with Laura, staring at the ceiling. Mike Peterson was sleeping in the guest-room down the hall in the sofa bed; Frank Black was parked downstairs on the sofa. Frank and Mike were armed. That made Vince feel a little better, but he felt naked without a gun himself, even though he’d never fired one in his life.

  The three men had gone back to the house and over iced coffee and bagels they’d talked until one in the morning. Most of the talk revolved around the cult and some more personal history on the mysterious disappearance of Jesse Black.

  Vince didn’t think Frank would be so privy to hearing about his father’s untimely demise, but the man had apparently heard it a dozen times. He’d also most likely been able to distance himself emotionally from his father, since he’d never known the man while growing up. It would be as if Vince were to ever hear his own natural father had died of cancer.

  It had been a nice evening outside, with a breeze cooling down the heat of the day. Despite that, Mike and Frank insisted that all the windows and drapes be closed. Vince had complied and turned on the air conditioner. Then they re
treated to the den, which was at the rear of the house. Vince brought the pitcher of iced coffee in the den and set it on the bar counter for refills where they’d spent the rest of the evening talking.

  As it turned out there wasn’t much more to the story of Jesse Black. He’d turned up in San Francisco in early 1968 and managed to track Gladys down to a house on Haight and Ashbury where she was living with several cult members. He’d demanded to see his baby, not knowing the newborn girl’s fate. Gladys told him she’d given the child up for adoption and Jesse had flown into a rage. He’d been restrained by several cult members, who’d forced him into a car and driven him to an undisclosed location. Mike believed it was a location in the Santa Cruz Mountains where cult rituals were common, and where the cult maintained a compound. Whatever the destination the result was the same; while Jesse never told Mike what he’d witnessed, it was evident he was exposed to something terrible. He’d fled in a severe mental state, was picked up by the San Francisco police three days later for vagrancy and when he was released, he disappeared.

  He’d severed all ties with his family, his friends back in Los Angeles, his job.

  He became one of the anonymous space-cases that wandered Golden Gate Park, sleeping in cardboard boxes, muttering to themselves.

  Mike and John Llama had grown concerned when they hadn’t heard from their friend in a few weeks, and tried to track Jesse down. His family in El Paso joined in the effort. Then, almost as suddenly as he disappeared, Jesse reappeared in his hometown.

  He showed up suddenly at the home of his parents, on El Paso’s east side, disheveled, wearing a dirty pair of jeans, a tattered shirt, a pair of brown oxfords tied together with duct tape, and a tweed jacket. He hadn’t shaved. He hadn’t bathed. The only thing recognizable about him was his eyes, which his mother recognized immediately. Upon seeing the haunted eyes of her son the woman broke down sobbing and embraced the decrepit man standing on her front porch.