Crucifax

by Ray Garton

  Leaning against the wall, Kevin watched them. They huddled over pinball machines and video games, crowded around tables and lifted their icy beer mugs in loud toasts. Some of them writhed their well-worked-out bodies on the small dance floor in front of the big-screen television that was showing a Lionel Ritchie video.

  He felt out of place, almost claustrophobic. He thought of how happy his parents would be if he could fit into that crowd; if he sported one of those tan, perky girls on his arm, drove a sports car, and had his hair styled. He never would—he didn't want to—and for that reason, he would always remain an outsider in his family.

  Kevin held the ticket with their order number on it. He turned to Trevor, slapped the slip of paper into his hand, and said, "I'm gettin' the fuck outta here. I'll wait for you outside."

  There was a small patio area in front of Mickey D.'s. Rustic picnic-like tables and benches were set up beneath a turquoise-blue and white striped awning. A curtain of water cascaded down from the awning, giving the busy boulevard a dream-like appearance.

  Kevin leaned against one of the tables and lit a cigarette. He hadn't ridden his motorcycle in a couple days, and he thought of the bike parked on Whitley, soaking wet from the rain. Normally, he wouldn't leave it unprotected for so long. That motorcycle was very important to him. Sometimes he got on it and drove even when he had no place to go. It felt good, so unenclosed, and he didn't think he would ever be able to drive a car. He hadn't felt the need to drive his bike in a couple days, and it wasn't just because he'd been so preoccupied with Mace's drugs and Mallory's body. Since Mallory had finally agreed to join Crucifax, a feeling had crept into Kevin's life that he'd never experienced before, a feeling that seemed to grow as he spent more time with Mace.

  Contentment.

  The door behind Kevin opened, and he turned, hoping to see Mark and Trevor with their pizzas.

  It was Larry Caine.

  Behind him were three other guys, all with broad shoulders and thick-muscled necks.

  "Hey, gay bait," Larry said, grinning, coming toward him fast, "what're you doing here? I didn't think this place was your style. Your friends with you? Where's Mallory, she get sick of you or something?" He stood inches before Kevin.

  Not moving, feeling Larry's beer breath on his face, Kevin didn't blink.

  "You still smoking?" Larry asked, tapping the side of Kevin's cigarette with his fingernail. "Don't you know how bad that is for you? Don't you read the papers? Or… do you read?"

  The three guys behind him guffawed, each of them shifting his weight from foot to foot.

  Kevin glanced at the door, willing Mark and Trevor to come out.

  Larry knocked the cigarette from Kevin's hand.

  "Just thinking of your health, dude," Larry sneered.

  The others laughed again.

  "So how are things going between you and Mallory? You two happy? She, uh… she jack you off while you're riding your big bad motorcycle?"

  Something ripped inside Kevin, like a piece of fabric being torn down the middle, and he decided not to wait for the others. He'd been wanting to hurt Larry Caine too long to wait any longer.

  He brought his knee up hard; Larry's mouth dropped open, and he jerked forward, his knees pulling together and his hands slapping over his crotch as he made a pained retching sound.

  Larry's friends rushed around him, their jaws set. Kevin stepped back, reached down quickly, and swept the knife from his boot, opening it with a smooth flick of his wrist, holding it lightly, and slowly waving it back and forth before him as he stepped back.

  Larry staggered backward, spitting, "You little cock-sucker!"

  The others moved fast, their eyes on the knife; two of them flanked Kevin while one moved behind him.

  Kevin glanced at the door again, beginning to feel panicky.

  Larry straightened up, his face contorted, and moved toward Kevin again.

  "You've got a lot of nerve, dickhead," Larry hissed. "In case you didn't notice, you're all alone here."

  "My friends are inside."

  "I know, I saw them." He smiled maliciously. "But you're out here." He nodded to his friends.

  Kevin heard movement behind him and spun to his left, swinging outward with the knife. The blade cut through the sleeve of one of Larry's friends, and Kevin felt it pass through flesh, then pull out as the arm jerked away with a cry.

  Larry's fist pounded into Kevin's kidney, and threads of pain shot up his side like a barrage of bullets. Kevin's knees gave way with the pain, and he fell. Someone grabbed his right wrist and squeezed hard. The knife slipped and chittered over the cement.

  Another fist slugged him in the stomach as his arms were pulled above his head. He gasped for breath and tried not to vomit as he was dragged to the sidewalk. They pulled him through the rain and around a corner, then dropped him in a puddle. His head smacked the pavement as one of them kicked him in the ribs, knocking out what little air seemed to be left in his lungs. When Kevin opened his eyes, squinting against the rain falling in his face, he saw them towering over him like buildings. Larry hunkered down beside him, grinning.

  "What's this?" Larry asked, taking Kevin's Crucifax in hand. He tore it away, and the leather cord burned Kevin's neck. "Some jewelry?" Larry asked in a swishy, mocking, feminine voice, inspiring more laughter from his friends. "Where'd you get this piece of shit, an arts and crafts fair? Venice Beach, maybe?"

  "Give me that," Kevin growled through his pain.

  "Oh? Is it sentimental?" Larry chuckled as he tossed the Crucifax over his shoulder.

  Kevin winced when he heard it scrape and crack over the pavement.

  This will be your escape from all that you hate, Mace had said, from all the people who don't understand you.

  Kevin tried to sit up, but Larry pushed him back down with his foot.

  … someday, this will be all you have…

  Mustering all the strength he could, ignoring his pain, Kevin clenched a fist and threw it in Larry's face. It landed so hard, his knuckles cracked and Larry fell over backward. As Kevin sat up he saw Mark and Trevor rounding the corner of the building. Mark held a stack of pizza boxes but dropped them and rushed forward with Trevor, both of them drawing their knives.

  Kevin heard grunts and curses, shoes scraping and splashing over the wet puddled pavement, the meaty sounds of fists meeting flesh. He rolled onto his hands and knees, crawling forward, groping for the Crucifax.

  A foot slammed into his stomach, knocking him onto his back again.

  "You motherfucking little—" Larry swept down on him like a bird of prey, grabbed his jacket, lifted him, and crashed him to the wall, pummeling Kevin furiously with his fists.

  The alley was suddenly awash with red, blue, and white light. Tires hissed into the wet alley; brakes lurched, and car doors opened and slammed as voices shouted:

  "Hey!"

  "Police!"

  "Stay right there! Stop!"

  "Jesus, cops!"

  There was a flurry of running feet and panting breaths as Larry let go of Kevin.

  Eyes blurred, body aching, his head pounding with pain, Kevin slid to the wet pavement. Nearly oblivious to the frantic activity around him, he touched his chest where the Crucifax had been and groaned. The pulsing, spinning lights hurt his eyes, and he closed them, closing his fist over the wet material of his shirt.

  People will know who you are when they see this around your neck…

  He felt empty, lost….

  They'll know that you're a friend of mine….

  … helpless…

  … that you 're important…

  "Okay," a deep voice said, cold and official, "let's see some I.D., kid."

  … and powerful…

  "I'm… I'm… a… Mace… Mace…"

  "What?"

  Kevin felt sick.

  So don't ever…

  "Maybe you better call an ambulance," one of the voices said.

  … take it…

  "Cruci-Crucifax�
�" Kevin muttered through the blood in his mouth, still clutching his chest.

  …off…

  His parents' faces flashed in his mind, tight and angry, as he felt hands lifting him from the ground.

  There are places we can send you to! he heard his mother shouting.

  "Mace…" he gurgled.

  "Mace?" a voice barked. "Somebody spray you with Mace?"

  "Bullshit," another barked. "Nothing wrong with his eyes, is there? He's not blind."

  "M-Mace… Cruci… fax…"

  "He's grabbing his chest. Your chest hurt, kid?"

  "Oh, he's okay. On something, I bet. I'm gonna go see if they caught the others."

  "Okay, kid, suck it up. You're coming with us."

  Kevin began to cry….

  When Reverend Bainbridge walked through the front door of the Calvary Youth House, Mrs. Wanamaker was at the piano leading the group in a song. The singing stopped and all eyes turned to the reverend.

  Mrs. Wanamaker spun around on the piano stool, smiling. Her mouth dropped open and her hands slapped onto her thighs.

  "Rev… Reverend," she gasped, standing slowly. "What's happened to you? We were so worried, we thought—"

  "Lock all of the doors and windows," the reverend said firmly, taking off his muddy, wet coat.

  The kids—about thirty or so of them seated on sofas and chairs, on cushions, and on the floor—stared at him with puzzlement and confusion.

  "Did you hear me?" he said, his voice loud but trembling. He let his coat drop to the floor, turned, and locked the front door.

  Some of the teenagers stood, but only to continue staring at the reverend as if he were a stranger.

  "Lock everything," Bainbridge said, "and pull all the shades. Now." He took a steadying breath and tried to sound more relaxed and polite when he said, "Please."

  He walked into the living room, mud caked on his face and clothes, and Mrs. Wanamaker came to his side.

  "Reverend, what's wrong?" she asked. "What's happened?"

  He shook his head, pressed his hands to his temples, and tried to calm his breathing.

  "Could you get me some aspirin and a glass of water, Mrs. Wanamaker?"

  "But you're filthy! You should bathe and lie down, you don't look well, you should—"

  "Mrs. Wanamaker, we are all in a great deal of danger; my health is the least of my worries. The Lord has shown me… He's shown me…" He realized he was shouting, and all of them were staring at him in shock, with a little fear in their eyes. "Does anyone here," he asked softly, "know a man… named Mace?"

  Silent stares.

  "Anyone? Have you talked to him? Seen him? He's tall and thin, with—"

  Quiet laughter came from the kitchen doorway.

  Bainbridge saw Jim standing there, leaning against the doorjamb with a satisfied smile on his face.

  I should have known, the reverend thought, remembering Jim's stacks of hideous novels and the things he'd written, all those dark and wicked stories….

  "You," the reverend breathed, moving toward him. "How well do you know him? What have you told him about me? What do you know?" he shouted.

  "I've talked with him," Jim said. "That's all. He bought me lunch."

  "Bought you lunch. Do you know who he is? What he is?"

  "He's a nice guy," Jim said with a shrug. "Interesting."

  "He's a devil!" Bainbridge shouted, his tears returning. "He's an angel of Satan! And he's claimed one of us, one of this group! Maybe because of you, because you let him in, because you will not accept the truth offered to you here, because you are so in love with evil!" He searched the boy's face for some sign of fear, of regret, but saw only a glib, satisfied smirk, as if he knew something that he was not about to tell. "I want you out of here. Now. Out!"

  Jim laughed and shook his head. "Yeah, I'll go."

  "Get your things and get out of here now!"

  "Okay, okay, I'm going." He crossed the room slowly, giving Bainbridge a knowing glance, muttering, "But I didn't fuck anybody." He disappeared down the hall.

  Oh, Lord, he knows, the reverend thought, clenching his fists. How did he find out? Who has he told?

  Bainbridge looked around at the horrified and confused faces, saw the tears in Mrs. Wanamaker's eyes—

  "Reverend, Reverend," she was whispering.

  —and got down on his knees.

  "Pray," he said hoarsely, a desperate sense of urgency coursing through his veins. "Kneel with me and pray for protection and guidance, because he's out there now, laughing at us—"

  And what are the words for what you did, Reverend?

  "—looking for our weaknesses, preying on them right now, this man, this evil, vicious disciple of Satan—"

  … for what you did…

  The reverend felt sick as he knelt on the floor, knowing by the frozen expressions on their faces that he wasn't getting through to them.

  "—waiting for us to open ourselves up to him, to make the smallest mistake, to take our eyes from the Lord for one moment—"

  We're doing the same work.

  "—to doubt His Word for an instant—"

  You want them to be what you want them to be.

  Bainbridge closed his eyes and for a moment began responding to the remembered words in his head as if they were being spoken into his ear:

  "No, no, what God wants them to be, His will be done, His will be—"

  I sure hope you aren't an example of good….

  "No, that was a mistake, a mistake, the Lord forgives, He—"

  A hand on his shoulder.

  A soft voice:

  "Reverend, why don't you lie down, please…."

  He opened his eyes. Mrs. Wanamaker was standing over him.

  The kids were leaving, quietly filing out with their coats and Bibles.

  "No! Don't let them go out there! No! He's waiting, that's what he wants!"

  Ellen and two of the boys went down the hall toward their rooms, whispering quietly to one another.

  Bainbridge's head was spinning when he tried to get up. He fell on his stomach, sobbing, fists clenched.

  "He's waiting… he's waiting for them…."

  The door closed.

  They were all gone.

  Mrs. Wanamaker put her arm around him and tried to help him up.

  "You don't know… what I've seen," he muttered, his hands still clinging to each other in a prayerful clench. "You don't know what he's done to those kids, what he's done to… to Nikki. Poor… dear… sweet… Nikki…"

  "Reverend. Let me call a doctor. Please."

  He smacked his lips several times. "No, there's no reason to call a doctor." Then, after a moment of thought: "Is there?"

  It suddenly occurred to him that perhaps—just perhaps —it had not happened. Perhaps that horrible thing he'd witnessed in Mace's dark and damp basement had been a hallucination, a dreadful waking nightmare.

  But he knew it could not be. What he'd seen was real, and those kids, as well as others, were in deep and terrible danger. He knew it would be unwise to go to the police; if Mace had told the truth and those three men in there were police officers, how could Bainbridge know there weren't other policemen involved with him, maybe the whole force?

  Who could he turn to, then? Certainly not his kids, who had just hurried out like house guests fleeing an embarrassing family argument. And Bainbridge could tell, as he looked up into the confused and pitying eyes of Mrs. Wanamaker, that the poor woman feared he was suffering some kind of breakdown.

  Bainbridge's only source of help and guidance was the Lord, and that made him laugh out loud. After what He'd allowed to happen to Nikki, the reverend had no reason to think the Lord would lend him an ear.

  "Can I call someone, Reverend?" Mrs. Wanamaker whispered. "I think you need help."

  The reverend got to his feet and stood on wobbly legs, trying to compose himself.

  "No, Mrs. Wanamaker. Thank you, but no. I… I'm sorry for disturbing the group. Terribly sorry." He
felt himself slipping again, ready to release another sob, but he sucked it in and scrubbed a hand over his dirty face. "I think I'll take a hot bath; why don't you, um, go home for the night?"

  "Heavens, no. I have to clean up yet, and I'm worried about you. Maybe you shouldn't be alone, maybe I should—"

  "That's very kind, Mrs. Wanamaker, but unnecessary. Thank you anyway." He seated himself on the sofa and waved at her to go away. He remained there as she gathered her things up to leave.

  The reverend sat there smacking his lips, deep in thought. He truly did have no one to turn to… except for one very old and long-neglected friend….

  He could taste it.

  After Mrs. Wanamaker left, the reverend went to his-room, browsed through his phone book, and made a call to Duffy's Liquors. The ad in the phone book said: "WE DELIVER!"

  J.R. leaned against his kitchen counter facing Jeff. A section of the fluorescent ceiling light buzzed and flickered, in need of repair. Jeff was standing against the wall by the window, his hair wet from the shower he'd taken earlier. He wore J.R.'s white terrycloth bathrobe. His clothes, along with Lily's, were in the wash downstairs.

  J.R. had not been able to get anything out of them as he drove them to his apartment. Both had been near hysteria, especially Lily. She'd been so upset that, against his better judgment and with visions of lawsuits dancing in his head, J.R. gave her some brandy to calm her down and warm her up while Jeff was in the shower.

  Once Lily was in the shower, Jeff began to tell J.R. what had happened. Speaking in fits and starts, his eyes darting nervously around him, Jeff related to him the events of that afternoon—watching Mace, Nikki, and Bainbridge from the window of Dangerous Visions, watching Mace disappear down a manhole—and told him how they'd followed Mace's trail that evening. That was where Jeff lost him.

  "Wait, wait just a second," J.R. said. "Who is this Mace guy?"

  "I'm… not sure."

  "How do you know who he is? Have you met him?"

  "Once. Yesterday. In the Galleria." A shudder passed through Jeff, and he drew the robe together in Front of his throat.

  "What?" J.R. asked. "What aren't you telling me?"

  Jeff slowly shook his head. "You'll think I'm crazy."

  J.R. laughed. "You call me collect From six blocks away, I find you in Front oF a Chevron station covered with shit because, From what I understand, which isn't much so Far, you spent the evening in a sewer. So don't worry, Jeff, if I were going to think you're crazy, I'd be thinking it by now."