Crucifax

by Ray Garton

  "I didn't do it. She wanted to try it."

  "But you… I thought…"

  "There are no rules here, Kevin. You know that. You can do whatever you want."

  "But this is dangerous!"

  Mace shrugged one shoulder, said, "Everything's dangerous," and went back to the pool.

  Mallory offered the joint again. "Sure you don't want some?"

  Sitting on the cushion again, hugging his knees, Kevin shook his head.

  "Fine." Mallory joined the others.

  Kevin put his head in his hands and groaned. At least he'd felt safe in the center, as much as he'd hated it. Somehow, he didn't feel safe now that he was out.

  He'd been so excited to see Mace, so relieved, so eager to get back to Mallory and the others, the band. Now it all seemed different. Wrong. He'd been gone only a few days, but it seemed like a year. Everyone, everything, seemed different, especially Mace.

  Kevin had wanted to make Larry Caine and his friends hurt, that was all, blacken an eye, loosen a few teeth. Mace had thought that was a fine idea and had given him and Trevor and Mark some chains from the sub-basement.

  It was just going to be a fight, that was all.

  But Kevin had not counted on getting so carried away. He'd not counted on his parents' faces flashing so vividly in his head as he swung the chain, or on the rush of hatred that had been building up in him during those days in the center.

  He looked at the crowd in the basement and wondered how many others had needle marks in their arms.

  Kevin stayed in the corner for hours, watching them come and go, familiar faces from school, from his neighborhood, and from the center. A few police officers came in wearing their rain slickers; they used the door upstairs instead of the sewer and seemed to enjoy making a lot of noise when they entered, stomping their feet, laughing loudly, then coming down to the pool and choosing companions for the next few hours. That was how Mace kept them happy and quiet.

  As he watched the others Kevin kept an eye on Mallory. She stayed close to Mace, followed him around the room, in and out of the pool. Mace paid no more attention to her than he did to any of the others, but she did not stray far from his side. She touched him frequently—an arm, his hair, his ass—and sometimes tilted her face up when she had his attention, offering her lips.

  I could leave, Kevin thought, turning away from her as she pressed herself against Mace's side, get out of here and away from Mace, away from all of them.

  Then: And go where?

  Everyone he knew and was closest to was here, and after what had happened at the Laurel Teen Center there were going to be a lot of people looking for him and everyone else who'd left the center that night.

  And I made him a promise, he thought with a tremor of dread. He was still not sure what that promise meant, but thinking about it brought a tense, smothering feeling to his chest. This is your key….

  The music stopped, and Mace clapped his hands once and called, "Kevin! Let's make some music."

  Kevin slowly got to his feet; he felt weak, tired, and wanted to sleep. Instead, he made his way to the instruments along with the others in the band.

  Mace gently placed a hand on Kevin's shoulder and said, "We're gonna make this valley eat metal, Kevin. Just like you wanted."

  Kevin wasn't sure he wanted to anymore….

  Twenty-Five

  Dawn came slowly on the day of the concert, spreading over the San Fernando Valley like a dark gray blanket. There had been no break in the rain the night before, and dirty water flowed into the streets from clogged gutters.

  The top story on every local radio and television news broadcast was the inexplicable escape of nearly every teenager at the Laurel Teen Center. Seven of the thirty-nine teenagers staying at the center remained; four of them had been injured, and all seven had been moved to a hospital in Burbank. Two attendants were dead, eight were seriously injured, and four had received minor physical injuries but had been taken to the hospital in gibbering states of hysteria. There was still no explanation for what had happened, and none of the escaped teenagers had yet been found, but authorities assured the public that at least some of them would be recovered within twenty-four hours.

  When J.R. awoke on his sofa, where he'd spent the night dozing, fully clothed, in front of the television set, a local morning news show was in progress. A perky Asian woman and an authoritative middle-aged man with an immaculately trimmed beard—some kind of psychiatrist, from what J.R. could tell—were discussing the attack on Faye Beddoe and the disturbing similarities between Sherry Pacheco's and Nikki Astin's subsequent suicides.

  "I think one of the chief reasons teenage suicide is on the upswing," the man was saying, gesticulating dramatically with his right hand, "is the glorification of death and violence on television, in the movies, and particularly in the lyrics of so many of today's popular songs. You'll find the prevailing message is one of hopelessness and discouragement, which, I feel, brings about a great deal of negativity and can encourage these confused and highly impressionable teens to turn to suicide, sometimes individually, sometimes in groups, which is precisely what I think we're seeing now in the case of—"

  "Fuck yourself," J.R. grunted, taking the remote control from the floor and turning to a Porky Pig cartoon.

  The day before, J.R. had spoken with Mr. Booth before going home. Choosing his words carefully, trying not to sound too upset, he'd told him about Mace, about the Crucifaxes, about everything but Mace's pets and Nikki's abortion; he still wasn't too sure of the validity of those particular details. He'd informed Booth of Nikki's suicide and told him about the similarities between Sherry's last words and Nikki's note.

  Booth had heard him out, flicking his right earlobe with his index finger as he listened. When J.R. was finished, Booth had said, "So what you're saying here is that this group, this club, whatever, could be some kind of—oh, a suicide cult? Is that right?"

  "I think it's a very good possibility."

  Leaning forward, folding his hands on his desk, Booth said, "Well, now, I certainly don't want to appear unfeeling, J.R., because I do understand your concern, but I think you'll realize, as you spend more and more time in the field of education, that it's often necessary to develop a few calluses. While it's sometimes very easy to become involved with the problems and lives of our students, we must draw a distinct line between educating and parenting." He'd leaned back in his chair then, his face firm, as if he'd just made a statement of great import.

  "I'm sorry, but I'm not… I'm not sure I understand."

  "Well, if you honestly believe that this fellow—Mace?— is a danger to the students, you should inform the police."

  "But I told you, I'm afraid there's some involvement with—"

  "Now that, I must admit, is a bit too farfetched for me to swallow. I mean, the police? Involved with this man? This—this self-proclaimed rock-and-roll messiah, or whatever he is? I really don't think so, J.R. As I said, you should go to the police. Tell them what you know. But don't expect miracles. Remember, those streets are filled with pushers and pimps and all manner of undesirables who prey on young people. Your man Mace is certainly not a new problem. There's really nothing more you can do, though. Anything beyond that is up to the parents."

  "But what if the parents don't know? Don't care?"

  Booth shrugged and held up his hands in a gesture of helplessness. "It's simply not our problem." He started to get up but looked at J.R. again with a cocked brow and said firmly, "And J.R., I hope you don't plan to spread this around and start some kind of panic among the kids. Or among the parents—that would be even worse. Lord knows, they've got enough to worry about, don't you think?"

  J.R. had left the principal's office angry but quiet, thinking, I should have known.

  The notes he'd made after going through the files in the counseling offices were stacked on the end table by the sofa. J.R. sat up and looked through them.

  Mace's group was performing that night, and J.R. wa
s willing to bet each of the students in his notes, as well as many more, would attend the concert. He wondered how many of their parents knew or cared.

  Maybe if they knew, he thought, they would care. If they knew the danger their sons and daughters were in…

  If he tried to tell them, most would probably think he was crazy. He would have to pad the story to avoid giving them any of the more farfetched details. Of course, he would have to deal with Mr. Booth later, he realized he might be suspended or even fired.

  "Unless I'm right," he grunted as he got off the sofa. His back and neck ached, and he felt like pulling out the bed, undressing, and crawling between the sheets. Instead, he stretched his arms, yawned, and headed for the bathroom.

  As J.R. showered and dressed for work Jeff lay asleep in his bed, where he'd been tossing and twisting beneath the blankets since three-thirty a.m.

  Erin silently opened his bedroom door, watched him a moment, then backed out. She had been looking in on him every half hour or so since he'd gone to bed.

  When she got home from work, Erin had found him standing at the glass door staring out at the rainy darkness; all the lights were on, and the radio was playing loudly. His arms were folded over his chest, and he was shaking. When he heard her come in, Jeff spun around, and words began to spill from his mouth in a rush.

  She embraced him, tried to comfort him, and listened as he told her about Nikki. Erin considered taking him to see a doctor soon; he was so upset, she even thought of taking him to a hospital then. He hadn't taken Mallory's behavior well; he'd been a bundle of nerves lately, not sleeping, easily startled. She'd been especially worried by his description of the rats in the apartment on Sunday night. He seemed to think the rats had actually led Mallory out. That, of course, was ridiculous, but that did not mean Jeff didn't actually believe he'd seen it happen. Witnessing two deaths within twenty-four hours didn't help his state of mind, and that concerned her even more.

  She'd spent most of the night looking through the classifieds of several local papers. By dawn, Erin had circled countless help-wanteds.

  When she left Jeff's room, Erin returned to the table, where a cigarette still burned in an ashtray already filled with crumpled butts. Taking a drag, she decided to let Jeff sleep; it wouldn't hurt him to miss a day or two of school, and he needed the sleep.

  She looked over the job openings she'd circled and began copying addresses and phone numbers onto a piece of notebook paper. She'd already quit her job with Fantasy Phone Lines but planned to hang onto her four dancing jobs until she'd landed something else.

  Jeff woke up at eight-thirty and, despite Erin's protests, insisted on going to school.

  "Can't you miss a day?" she asked. "You need to sleep, hon."

  "It's not just school. I've gotta see J.R. I was supposed to talk to him last night, but… well, I couldn't. I need to see him today."

  "Listen, Jeff, I don't want to sound—well… like a mother, but I'm worried about you. Are you sure you're well?"

  He slumped onto the sofa and ran his fingers through his hair wearily, sighing, "I'm okay, Mom. It's not me I'm worried about."

  "That's what I mean." She sat down beside him and put her arm around his shoulders. "I know some pretty awful things have been happening, and I know you're worried about Mallory. I am, too. But maybe you're getting a little too worried about all this, you think? You can't take the weight of the world on your shoulders, Jeff."

  She was surprised at the anger she saw in his eyes when he turned to her. "Didn't you hear anything I told you Sunday night? Weren't you listening? Didn't you hear me last night when I told you about Nikki?"

  "Yes, sweetheart, but you can't—"

  "Mom, something's going on here, and if somebody doesn't do something, Mallory may end up dead, too!"

  "Oh, Jeffy," she whispered, holding him to her, "Mallory's not going to do anything like that, not Mallory, she's—"

  "You didn't think she'd leave either, did you? You didn't even know she'd left until I told you."

  Erin didn't argue; she couldn't bear the thought of Jeff harboring any bitterness toward her.

  After showering and dressing, Erin drove Jeff to school; then, with her list of addresses on the seat beside her, she set out to look for a new job.

  The sidewalks in front of the school were uneven and in need of repair and had flooded in places; Jeff had to hurry around large puddles to get into the administration building. Third period was about to start, and he hurried through the busy halls, hoping no one would stop him to talk. He was tired and didn't feel like explaining his tardiness to anyone.

  Mrs. Astin had not arrived until a few minutes after midnight the night before. She'd staggered into the apartment smelling of booze and had looked at them blankly for a moment before asking, "What're you two doing here? Where's Nikki?"

  Jeff had let Lily do the talking; he'd watched Mrs. Astin's sagging and heavily made-up face wither as Lily told her what had happened.

  "That's not true," she'd muttered, sinking into a chair and letting her purse drop to the floor. She began to shout and pound her thighs with her fists. "That's not true! She was here today, she's fine, Nikki's fine!"

  Lily had driven him home afterward, both of them silent; before he got out of the car, she'd held him for a long time.

  When Jeff got to J.R.'s office, he found J.R. at his desk sorting through a stack of crumpled papers covered with sloppy scribbles. They exchanged small talk for a while, and Jeff explained in detail what had happened at Nikki's.

  "You should go home and get some sleep," J.R. said. "You look tired."

  "So do you."

  J.R. shrugged.

  Jeff looked out the small window at the parking lot where deep puddles forced cars to slow down as they drove through. The traffic on Chandler was heavy and moved slowly, cautiously, through the pouring rain. The wind made tree branches wave madly through the air and kicked up water from the puddles.

  "He said there would be a storm," Jeff muttered.

  "Hm?"

  "Mace. In the Galleria. He said, 'Big storm comin'." He turned to J.R. and said, "Crucifax is performing tonight. At Fantazm."

  "I know."

  "I'm scared of what's going to happen."

  "Me, too, Jeff. But"—J.R. handed him the stack of papers—"I have an idea…."

  Before noon that day, conditions on the freeways became disastrous.

  Part of a hillside near the Sepulveda Pass, weakened by the constant rainfall, collapsed and slid onto the northbound side of the San Diego Freeway; within thirty minutes, that side of the freeway resembled a parking lot for miles southward.

  J.R. was unaware of the traffic problems outside. After Jeff left, he went through his records, jotting down the phone numbers of students he suspected were involved with Mace. It was a long shot, but he planned to call their parents and urge them to keep their children away from Fantazm that night. He realized that many of them would be at work and planned, if necessary, to keep calling all day until he reached as many as possible….

  Jeff planned to go to the rest of his classes but only attended two before deciding he had to get away from the school; there were too many empty seats. He called Lily from a pay phone in the cafeteria and asked if he could come over. When she said yes, he caught an RTD bus.

  She greeted him at the door with a long, warm hug. She looked weary and saddened, even a little angry as she told him that Nikki's funeral would be on Friday. Nikki's father was taking care of the arrangements; Mrs. Astin was too devastated to deal with anything but bed and a bottle.

  Jeff met Lily's father for the first time, a barrel of a man with short-cropped brown hair and a kind face. He was a night watchman at one of the studios in Burbank and was on his way back to bed when Jeff arrived, but he visited with them for a few moments, dressed in a black bathrobe. He was soft-spoken with a ready smile, and Jeff liked him immediately; he realized where Lily got her open friendliness.

  After he went to bed, L
ily drove them to Tiny Naylor's for burgers, but neither of them could eat. Tired and low on conversation, Lily dropped Jeff off at his apartment, saying she wanted to get some sleep. They agreed to meet at eight that night at Fantazm….

  J.R. got stuck in traffic on the way to Reverend Bainbridge's and turned on his radio. A man was speaking rapidly, trying to be heard above the sounds of traffic in the background.

  "—where they came from, but they were big as babies, and they had tusks, long, sharp tusks."

  The efficient voice of a female newscaster took over: "Mr. Connery, who worked at the Laurel Teen Center for three years, escaped the confusion with minor injuries and was released from the hospital this afternoon. His story has been confirmed by two other employees of the center who are still hospitalized, although no sign of the alleged rats has been found. As yet, none of the escaped teenagers has been—"

  Rats? J.R. thought. He remembered the confident look in Kevin's eyes as he'd walked away from J.R. at the center on Monday. Rats… Then he muttered, "Jesus Christ, Jeff wasn't imagining it…."

  Once he got to the Calvary Youth House, he moved with an urgency he had not felt before hearing the report on the radio. J.R. rang the doorbell; then, receiving no response, he knocked on the door. Not only was the door unlocked, it was not completely closed; it opened a few inches under the impact of his knock. There was no one in the living room, but it was not empty. Looking in, he saw a chair tipped over and four empty Jim Beam bottles lined up on the floor before the sofa. There was a pile of clothes on the floor at the entrance to the hall. J.R.'s nose wrinkled at the smell of liquor, body odor, and vomit as he took off his coat and tossed it on a chair.

  "Hello?" he called.

  There was a clatter from the kitchen, and glass broke. J.R. found Reverend Bainbridge lying on the floor in his bathrobe beside a shattered fifth of whiskey. He wore only one slipper, and his fair hair was dark from grease and stuck up in unkempt spikes.