by Ray Garton
The silence inside the building surprised J.R. Like the hush that had fallen over the nightclub earlier, it had an attentive reverence to it, a churchlike silence interrupted only by throat-clearing coughs and a few sniffs, and finally a voice, full and clear, that broke the brief silence like a pick through ice.
"… a place where there is no immorality… no morality, either…" the voice boomed, speaking in a lulling tone, with a rhythmic cadence that bobbed up and down like a boat on gentle waters.
"Mace," Lily whispered.
"… where you are accepted as you are, with no changes required…"
"Okay, what the hell we waiting for?" Brubaker growled quietly.
J.R. started through the door, but Brubaker pushed ahead of him.
"There are people who don't want you to go with me," Mace went on.
Halfway down the corridor, J.R. glanced over his shoulder to make sure the others were following, then rounded a corner to the right with Brubaker, coming to a stop.
"They want to keep you here, under their hands…."
They faced the backs of a dozen teenagers gathered at the top of a staircase that spiraled downward, blocked by many more, all silent and listening. In spite of the loud noise Brubaker had made opening the door, none of the teenagers seemed to know anyone had come in. Their attention was pinned to the voice below.
J.R. wondered if this was how his sister's friends and classmates had spent their last moments of life in the Old Red Barn in El Cerrito; if they had stood in such dead silence, listening to the last words they would ever hear, spoken by the man and woman who had led them to their deaths.
"… they want you to think that they care about you so much that they don't want you to go away, when they really don't care about you at all…"
He took a step forward and looked over a few shoulders and into the room below. From where he stood, he had a profile view of Mace from the chest up; his smile seemed to cover his whole face and glowed with warmth.
"… and those people," Mace continued, slowly turning toward him, gazing up through the crowd and into J.R.'s eyes, "have arrived…."
Kevin had never seen his neighborhood so black.
He'd run until he could run no more, leaving the alley for side streets, zigzagging through Studio City and North Hollywood, finally coming to a gasping stop against a darkened lamppost. When he spotted the police helicopter coming his way, spotlight cutting the rain, he'd limped between two houses and hunkered down in the shelter of a carport to catch his breath. Once his heart had slowed its machine-gun pace, he realized his shoulder was pressed against the front wheel of a bicycle. Quiet as a whisper, he walked the bike out of the carport, hopped on, and sped down the street.
During his wet and miserably uncomfortable ride to Encino, the past weeks replayed themselves in his mind: meeting Mace… his excitement over the possibility of getting the band on a stage… convincing Mallory to join him… giving more trust and admiration to Mace than he'd ever given anyone in his life…
Twice he had to double back to avoid streets and sidewalks that had been flooded, and the sirens howled in the distance like lonely wolves. In a platinum instant of lightning, he saw a dead cat floating down a flooded gutter. Everything around him seemed to be splitting open and spilling its insides like cattle being butchered. He had to slow his speed on the bike because hot tears were filling his eyes and blurring his vision. He felt angry at himself not only because he'd allowed Mace to deceive and use him, but most of all because he'd gotten Mallory involved.
As he passed through his neighborhood in Encino he saw candlelight glowing in windows, secretive shadows flitting over curtains. His parents' house showed no signs of life.
Legs aching, side burning, Kevin staggered around the garage and went in the side door. Inside, the garage was black, but Kevin was familiar enough with its layout to feel his way around the two cars and his motorcycle. At the door that led into the kitchen, he stopped.
He had come only because he had nowhere else to go. Now that he was there, he didn't know what he was going to say or do. Surely they wouldn't turn him away. Surely once they heard what was about to happen to Mallory and the guys in the band, they would help them. Especially if he promised to cooperate with them, to go along with any rules or punishments they wanted to administer. Anything was better than letting Mace do what Kevin was certain he had planned….
As he lifted his arm to knock, leaning heavily against the doorjamb, he felt his Crucifax move against his chest, cold and wet.
"Who's there?" his mother called when he knocked. Her voice was distant, from another room.
"Mom?" Kevin called timidly, his voice hoarse and mangled from crying. "Dad? It's me. Kevin."
Silence.
"Unlock the door?"
"What are you doing here?" his father snapped, obviously standing at the door. "What have you done?"
"Done? I, I, I—"
Speaking quickly and with growing anger, he said, "Do you know the police are looking for you, do you know that people are dead because of what happened at the teen center, dead? What did you do to them?"
"I didn't, I didn't—"
"And you have the nerve to come back here?"
"Just let me in and I'll——"
"You're not coming back into this house, not now, not ever!"
Kevin slid down the doorjamb and thumped onto the step below, crying. "I need—I need help, Dad. My, my girlfriend—Mallory?—she's in—in trouble."
"In trouble, huh? You want money, is that why you're here? Well, that's over. We've given to you, given and given, and all you do is—"
"No, she's gonna—gonna die, Dad, she's—"
"What are you on, Kevin? I can't believe you've come here on drugs after what you've done—"
"They're all gonna die!" he screamed.
"Get out. Get out of the garage and away from this house. Now!"
"Please, Daddy, please, you gotta help me, they're all gonna—"
"That's it. Renee, call the police."
"Nooo!" Kevin cried.
"Just call them now, goddammit."
"Dad, they're gonna kill themselves, all of them, and he's—"
"Your mother's calling the police, and if you think I'm going to protect you when they get here, you're wrong. I hope they put you behind bars! We've tried, Kevin, we have tried so hard to work with you, give to you, make you happy, but nothing we do ever seems to…"
His father's voice faded beneath the pounding in Kevin's head as he tried to crawl away from the door—
It's too late now….
—choking on his sobs—
… you have nowhere to go….
—leaning against the back wall of the garage beneath the large shelf Kevin had helped his dad make when he was a little boy.
… you need me now more than ever.
As his father's voice rambled on and on, Kevin became acutely aware of the leather cord around his neck and the Crucifax hanging beneath his soaked shirt. He leaned his head back against the wall, and when he closed his eyes he saw it, black-red and smooth, edges sharp as steel blades….
… nowhere to go…
"… that we have done all we can, Kevin, we're finished!" his father continued. "You are on your own from now on, do you understand?"
Mace was right. He had nothing, no one. The police would arrive soon and take him away, question him endlessly, lock him up, and question him some more. By tomorrow, Mallory would be gone, if her brother didn't get her away from Mace, and Kevin doubted he would. Kevin would be alone, even more alone than he felt at that moment in the dark, damp garage.
Nowhere to go, Kevin!
And he knew he would be unable to bear that.
Nowhere except with us!
Kevin pulled the Crucifax out of his shirt, held it tightly in a fist—
"You've lied to us, defied us, ignored us, and all we do is give, give, give!"
—turned his head to the right and tilted it back, pulli
ng the skin of his throat taut—
"Well, we've stopped giving, Kevin, we've—we've—we've given up! You're hopeless, worthless, you've proven that to us!"
—and slowly lifted his hand until the deadly edge of the Crucifax was pressed just beneath his jaw.
Lightning flashed through the small windows, and for an instant the garage was brightly lit. Peripherally, Kevin saw his motorcycle, unridden for over a week, saw his parents' cars, the lawnmower, and he realized in a small corner of his mind that they might be the last things he would ever see.
But he saw something else in that fraction of time, something directly in front of his eyes, hanging on the wall beside him, beneath the shelf: his father's double-bladed axe.
The end of the handle was inches from his left eye, and hanging above him on two nails was the rusted head, with a flaring blade on each side.
Kevin let go of the Crucifax, reached through the dark, and touched the smooth wooden handle.
"Until you grow up, until you learn a little responsibility and decency and gratitude," his father continued, "well, as far as I'm concerned, I have only one son!"
Struggling to his feet, Kevin took the axe from its nails and hefted it in his hands. It felt good, heavy and solid, and it seemed to suck his grief and sadness, the unbearable loss he was feeling, from him and put in its place a fiery, boiling hate. A hate he'd never felt for anyone, not even his parents in their worst moments. A hate so powerful, it constricted his throat and forced him to take in a sudden gasp of breath. This time it was for those golden eyes, that disarming, heart-winning smile, and that cool, clear, soothing voice: Mace.
… you need me now more than ever….
"Wrong," Kevin rasped.
He took the keys to his motorcycle from the hook beside the kitchen door, went to the other end of the garage, and pulled open the long rectangular door with a loud clatter.
"Kevin?" his father shouted. "Kevin, what're you doing?"
He took his helmet from the seat of his motorcycle, put it on, and climbed aboard the bike, placing the axe across the handlebars.
The lock on the kitchen door rattled, and his father pulled the door open as Kevin started his bike.
"Kevin, you cant—"
His voice was drowned by the engine's roar.
Kevin eased the bike between his parents' cars, then shot down the driveway in an explosion of light from the sky….
Twenty-Nine
Standing beside Will Brubaker, Erin could see nothing beyond J.R.'s shoulders. The others behind her pressed forward to look for their children or their friends, and Erin began to feel claustrophobic, trapped.
Touching J.R.'s back, Erin whispered, "Can you see them? Are Jeff and Mallory down there?"
J.R. reached back for her hand and gently pulled her forward to his side.
All eyes were turned to the top of the staircase, human eyes as well as slanted eyes that glittered from the darkest corners below.
"Jeff? Mallory?" Erin called, and, as if on cue, several other names were called behind her—
"Wayne?"
"Janet?"
"Brenda?"
"Mark!"
"Davey?"
"Linda!"
—a chorus that rose sharply and then died.
Mace stepped off the diving board and walked around the pool, smiling up at them all the while.
"Mallory," he said, "your mother's here."
A figure rose slowly out of the pool, climbing the steplad-der, and went to Mace's side.
Mallory was draped in a blanket, which she held together at her throat. She leaned on Mace, her eyes turned upward but focusing on nothing in particular.
Erin relaxed against J.R., relieved to see her daughter again; something was obviously not right with the girl, but at least she was alive.
Mace called Jeff, and he, too, came out of the pool and joined Mallory. He wore only his jeans, unbuttoned in front; a Crucifax glistened against his chest. With a graceful flourish, Mace put his arm around Mallory's shoulders and said, "She wants to take you home, Mallory," gently stroking her hair and still smiling at Erin and J.R.
Erin was sickened by the sight of him touching her daughter; she gripped the cold metal railing of the staircase and shouted, "Leave them alone, let them go!"
"But I'm not holding them," Mace replied amiably. "They're all free to go whenever they want. They just don't want to. Why do you suppose that is, Mrs. Carr?"
Erin closed her eyes a moment, knowing precisely why they didn't want to come home and hating herself for it.
J.R. took her hand again and led her down the crowded, dizzying stairs.
"Jeff," he said softly, "Mallory, you know this is wrong. It's a mistake, you know it. Don't you? Jeff? What are you doing here?"
Erin watched her son frown, confused, and look from J.R. to Mallory, then to her, his face bathed in the glow from the pool, his eyes filled with hurt.
"I… I'm not… sure," he whispered.
"I know what you saw," J.R. said, slowly leading Erin through the crowd toward them. "I know what happened this evening, and I know you're hurt, disappointed… but this? This isn't going to help anything."
He kept looking at Erin, and it took all of her strength not to turn away from his pain.
"Jeff, remember when I told you I had a younger sister?" J.R. asked. "Remember? Can you hear me, Jeff?"
Jeff looked slowly from Erin to J.R. and moved his head in a slight, almost imperceptible nod.
"She died, Jeff," he went on, his voice growing unsteady. "Killed herself. Hanged herself in a closet. Do you know why? Because two people, John and Dara, convinced her they would take her to a better place. A better place, Jeff. You hear me, Mallory? John and Dara told my sister the same thing Mace has been telling you, and because of them, my sister and twenty-nine others killed themselves." His voice sounded clogged with tears now, and he took a deep breath to hold them back.
When Erin realized what he was saying, she felt a deep, profound chill. Whatever was happening was much bigger than she'd thought.
"They didn't go to a better place," J.R. said. "They just died and got buried. My parents weren't willing to work with my sister, accept her, be honest with her, so she felt she had no other choice. But your mother isn't that way." He reached back and squeezed her arm, as if telling her to take over.
"I'm sorry, Jeff," she said, her voice a quavering murmur. They stopped three yards away from Jeff and Mallory. "Mallory? I'm sorry. I was doing everything I could to support you, both of you. I didn't mean to lie to you or be deceptive. I just didn't tell you, that's all. You're my life, you're all I have. We just haven't… I haven't tried hard enough to stay close. And I'm so… very… sorry."
Jeff's face softened for a moment.
"Mom…" he muttered.
Mallory turned to him and calmly, coldly said, "She's a whore."
The words pierced Erin's gut like a barbed spike.
"Okay," Will Brubaker boomed from above, his feet clanking heavily down the stairs. "Fuck this noise." He pushed by Erin, gun in hand. J.R. tried to stop him, but Brubaker pulled away.
"Oh, Wayne?" Mace called, amused. "Your dad brought a gun!"
There was a small stirring in the crowd behind Mace, and a slump-shouldered boy with gold-streaked black hair wearing a white T-shirt came to his side.
"Wayne!" Mrs. Brubaker called from the stairs. "Wayne, you come up here right now!" Her voice was ragged from crying, and she seemed to be straining to keep it under control.
As she was calling her son Will Brubaker was plowing through the crowd toward Mace, growling, "You're goddamned right I brought a gun, and I'm gonna use it on your ugly long-haired head if you don't let these kids go." He stopped and leveled the gun with Mace's head less than two feet away.
"Brubaker…" J.R. warned.
Mace said, "You don't need that, Mr. Brubaker. Anyone here who wants to go can leave now. No problem!" He grinned and opened his arms a moment, looking around, then le
t them slap to his sides.
Silence pulsed through the building for a moment. A long, dreamlike moment. Erin watched her children, sweat seeping between her fingers as she clenched her fists.
All at once, as if they had rehearsed it, the parents on the staircase rushed down to the pool room calling their sons and daughters, some pleading, some shouting disciplinary threats.
The teenagers behind them pleaded with their friends and siblings to leave, to get away from Mace, and their voices mixed with those of the parents around them until they were all indistinguishable.
Lifting his hands above his head, Mace shouted, "Please, people! This is not a white sale at Macy's. Let them decide."
A silence thick as mud oozed through the room until only the whisper of the sewer below and the shuffling of feet on the floor could be heard….
As Jeff watched his mother he felt something change in him, felt some of the fog clear behind his eyes.
"Mom," he said softly, but in the silence, his voice seemed louder than it actually was.
Erin took another step toward him, her eyes moving from Jeff to Mallory and back again.
"Did you hear me?" Mallory whispered. "She's a whore, Jeff, and a liar."
Erin sobbed as she moved a bit closer, and Jeff watched a tear roll down her cheek.
"Please don't say that, Mallory," she said. "I didn't know you would be so—so hurt, or I never would have—"
"How do you know she's not lying again, Jeff?" Mallory hissed.
Around them, voices rose from the crowd, timidly calling out to parents and friends, sounding weak and confused. One of the teenagers, a boy with short, spiky blond hair, stepped forward, reaching out a trembling hand.
Others came forward, shouldering their way to waiting parents who sighed their children's names with relief, taking their hands, hugging them, leading them to the stairs with cautious whispers.
"… yes, let's go now, let's just go…."