by Ray Garton
They were both silent for a long moment, then: "Have you eaten?" Carolee asked. "You hungry? Y'know, there's a restaurant upstairs. We could have breakfast."
Lacey hadn't realized it until that very moment, but she was very hungry. Her stomach felt like a deep hole that had been dug in her abdomen.
"Yeah," she said, nodding her head, "I am hungry."
In a few minutes they were sitting in a booth in the coffee shop at the far end of the bus station with steaming cups of coffee before them and their orders on the way.
"Everything was stolen?" Carolee asked.
"Everything I had with me. Everything."
"Well, don't worry about it. Breakfast's on me. And when my husband gets here, we're gonna help you out."
"Well, I don't know how you could — I mean, what're you gonna — I mean, you don't have to — "
"Listen. You need help. I mean, you think I'd leave you here with all these people?" She stabbed a thumb over her shoulder toward the enormous bus station. "What'm I sayin', people? Half of 'em are animals. Are you kidding? I'm not leavin' you here, even if I have to drag you outta the place! I'm just gonna have to wait for my husband to get here, is all."
"Oh, no, you don't need to — "
"Yes I do! There's no way, I mean, there's just no way I'm leavin' you here all by yourself with all your stuff gone. What would you do? Where would you go? Tell you what."
She was interrupted by the arrival of their breakfasts. Carolee smiled up at the waitress and said, "Thank you very much," while Lacey stared down at the plate before her. "Okay, listen up, Lacey," she said. "When Ron gets here, we're takin' you home, you hear me? What you wanna do is up to you. I mean, you wanna go back home, fine. You don't, fine. We'll take you to one of those places where they'll see to it you're taken care of. But you're gonna come home with us and figure out what you wanna do in a safe place, okay? You 'understand? You're not stayin' here. And when Ron gets here, I promise you, he'll agree. So." She slapped the tabletop with her palm and gave Lacey a big, dimpled smile. "I'm not leavin' you much choice, am I, sweetie?"
In spite of herself, Lacey leaned back in the booth and laughed. "Okay. Okay, if you say so."
"Then it's settled. Let's eat."
They ate their breakfasts, making small talk between bites of eggs and hash browns. They were nearly finished with their breakfasts when a tall man approached their table and said, "Carolee!"
Carolee looked up and grinned at the graying man carrying a suitcase, grinned and cried, "Sweetie-pie!" She slid out of the booth as he dropped the suitcase to the floor and they embraced, kissing each other's cheeks.
"C'mon, c'mon," Carolee said finally, "c'mon, sit down here and meet my new friend." She introduced the two of them.
Ron was a tall, thin man with a rugged-looking face. His hair, thick and wavy, was dark with silver streaks and his blue eyes were piercing. He smiled and nodded at Lacey as Carolee began to explain her problem to him.
"So I told her she had to come home with us," Carolee said, "so she'd have a safe place to decide what to do with herself. I mean, after all, she' s only sixteen!"
"Well, sure," Ron said, his eyebrows huddling with concern. "Yeah, she should come home with us. We wouldn't have it any other way," he said, reaching over to pat Lacey's hand. "Look, I travel a lot in my work, and I spend a lot of time in bus stations and airports. They're dangerous places to spend any time in, especially for a young girl like you. So, you just finish your breakfast and come on home with us."
Lacey and Carolee finished their breakfasts.
The waitress brought the check on a brown plastic tray.
Ron counted out a number of bills on the tray.
It was only as they were leaving the table that Lacey noticed that neither Ron nor Carolee wore a wedding ring.
She noticed it only in passing. It did not necessarily mean anything. There were a lot of married couples who did not wear wedding rings. In fact, some of Lacey's parents' friends were married but did not wear rings. Some people did not wear any jewelry — including wedding rings — for religious reasons. So that didn't really mean anything ... did it?
Ron picked up his suitcase and Lacey followed them through the station, then outside and across the parking lot to their car, a maroon-colored hatchback that was so clean and shiny that it looked brand-new.
Lacey got into the backseat on the passenger's side. Ron put his suitcase in the back, then got behind the wheel and started the car.
They had already left the parking lot when Lacey noticed a yellow blanket that was thrown over a pile of something to her left, just behind the driver's seat.
A small black crucifix swung back and forth on a chain as Ron drove.
Lacey's eyes moved slowly, from the crucifix, to the blanket, and to the crucifix again.
Something wasn't right about the black crucifix.
And there was something about that strap of leather sticking out from beneath the blanket.
First of all, the crucifix was black. Why black? Weren't they usually gold or silver? But there was something else ... something she couldn't quite put her finger on, probably because the crucifix was so small and kept moving back and forth ... back and forth, jiggling and jerking ...
Then it struck her. The crucifix was hanging upside down.
Lacey's head jerked down to look at the blanket, at the leather strap beneath it ... the familiar brown leather strap with the tan stitching.
It was the shoulder strap of her purse.
Her eyes returned to the dancing upside-down black crucifix as the inside of her chest began to turn to ice ...
... then back to the blanket. Her hand reached out slowly, trembling, almost resisting her will to move it forward, to take the corner of the blanket between thumb and forefinger. She pulled the blanket away.
Beneath it were her purse and her small light blue suitcase. They had been stolen in the bus station ... but they were here, in this car, with these friendly, smiling strangers ... and their upside-down black crucifix hanging from the rearview mirror...
As the car hummed along with Ron and Carolee sitting silently in the front seat, a scream began to bulge its way up from her chest. She swallowed hard, fought to gulp it back.
Finally, Lacey sat up and rasped, "My god, how come — "
But she froze because Carolee had turned around in her seat and was pointing a gun at Lacey's face. It was a small gun, but it was a gun. Carolee was smiling.
"You just calm down, sweetie," she said in her friendly way. "You'll be all right, really. We aren't gonna hurt you. And you know what? Before you know it, you're gonna end up in Los Angeles after all, just like you wanted. Know what else? There's even a job waiting for you there, how 'bout that? And it's one you've had lots of experience at, too, so don't go getting nervous about any job interviews, okay?" She grinned. "Just relax and everything's gonna be okay." After a moment her eyebrows rose curiously and she asked, "Did you enjoy your breakfast? Don't they make the best damned omelettes there?"
Lacey pressed her back into the seat hard, thinking, Yes, it's true ... it's just like Daddy said ... I'm being punished ... punished ... punished ...
PART ONE
Liberace, Human Interest,
and Dark Memories
1
Bent was on the telephone when the man walked into his tiny, cluttered office.
"I assure you, Mrs. Liedecker," Bent was saying, "the story will not reflect that at all."
"It's just that I'm so upset about, y'know, about what you saw when you were here," the woman said. "I know my husband was drunk. He'd had a few too many beers and was — "
"Look, it's no problem, Mrs. Liedecker."
" — no, really, really, I just don't want you to think he's that way, because he's not most of the time, he's just — "
"I assure you, Mrs. Liedecker, the story I'm writing has nothing to do with your husband's drinking. I'm only concerned about the demons you say have infested your house
."
"Whatta you mean, the demons I say have infested my house? You mean you don't believe me?"
Bent rolled his eyes and then looked up at the man in his office. He stared at him a moment, silent, not sure who he was or why he was there, but he motioned to the only other chair in the room anyway, silently telling him to take a seat.
"Mrs. Liedecker, if I didn't believe you — "
"I just can't understand how you couldn't believe us after all we — you think we weren't tortured! You think we weren't sodomized by those demons!"
"No, no, it's not that. You told me the stories, you showed me your journal — and what about the Polaroids of your husband bent over the sink like that, huh? So why would I have flown out from Los Angeles to see you and your family and spend time in your house? Why would I have gone to that trouble? In fact, why would I have this job? Did you ever think about that? Why would I be working for the Global Inquisitor, then, huh? If I couldn't believe a story like yours? No, no, I don't think so. Rest assured, all I meant by what I said was this."
Think fast, buddy, think fast, he thought to himself, eyes closed as he rubbed his temples with the thumb and forefinger of one hand, elbow pressed hard against the edge of the desktop as he tried hard to pay no attention to the fact that he had an audience.
"You see," he said, "the important thing is that you were astute enough to recognize that — "
"I was what enough? What's that supposed to mean?"
"Astute. That means you were, you were, um ... sensitive enough, that's what I meant, sensitive enough to think that your house was infested with demons, sensitive enough to realize it."
"Oh, okay."
"I mean, think of all the people out there who have demons in their houses but don't even know it, because they don't think the way you do, they're not as open-minded as you are."
"Not as ass-tute as I am?"
"Exactly. You see what I mean, then, Mrs. Liedecker?"
There was a pause on the other end of the line in which Bent could hear her breathing; she sounded like she had a rather wet sinus problem.
"Yes," she said thoughtfully, "yes, I think I do. And you're right. Yes. Yes, I think you are definitely right."
"Good, good, I'm glad. You have no reason to worry. My story is not going to be about your husband's drinking prob — his, I mean, his drinking. I understand that sort of thing, really, and it has nothing to do with this story."
"And my son? I mean, his ... his drug problem?"
"What drug problem?"
She laughed with relief. "Thank you so much, Mr. Noble. You've made me feel a lot better."
"I'm glad. Now, I promise you we'll be in touch. Give my best to your nice family and you take care, okay?"
"Thank you."
He replaced the receiver with a grumbling sigh and sat there for a moment with his elbows on the desk and his face in his hands.
Bentley Noble was a quarter inch short of six feet, thin and not very muscular, with black hair that was beginning to recede and a black beard and mustache, which he kept closely trimmed. His skin had an olive tone that led most people to believe he had a tan when he really didn't because, in fact, he despised the sun and despised even more the practice of wasting time lying beneath it. His mother was a full-blooded Greek with the raging temper to prove it, while his father was a mixture of British and Portuguese. Both were dark and had passed that on to Bentley. Sometimes when he looked at pictures of his father when he was at the age Bent was now, he was stunned by the resemblance, right down to the formation of his receding hairline. Threads of gray ran through his black hair, especially above his ears, and even in his beard, all of which brought out his light sea-green eyes, just like those pictures of his father.
Bent finally lifted his face from his hands and smiled brightly at his visitor as he said, "Hi, there. And what can I do for you?"
The man was in his late thirties, maybe even forty or so, rugged-looking with a jaw shadowed by stubble that held a hint of gray. He wore faded blue jeans, a blue chambray work shirt beneath a dusty denim jacket, and a cap over his thick dirty-blond hair that had an oval-shaped patch on the front that read:
POLLIMAR CONSTRUCTION CO.
PUNCTUALITY & PERFECTION
He was lean and muscular and his face was knotted in a mask of worry and distracted concern.
"Hiya," he said with a weak smile. His voice was low, a little shy-sounding.
Seeing how very uncomfortable the man was, Bent stood from his chair, leaned forward, and held out his hand to shake, still smiling as he said, "Bentley Noble. You can call me Bent. Everybody does."
The man stood, too, and they shook.
"Yeah, I know who you are," he said pleasantly. "I'm David Kotter."
"Well, Mr. Kotter, what brings you to my office? In fact, how the hell did you find my office?" He laughed, leaning back in his chair and folding his hands beneath his chin, elbows on the chair's armrests. "Half the time, I can't find my office."
"Actually," Mr. Kotter said, fidgeting in his chair, "my wife was the one who found it. Y-you, um, got some letters from her. I dunno if you remember 'em or not, but you got 'em."
"Your, um, wife? And what would her name be?" Bent leaned forward and folded his hands on his desk.
"Nattie? Nattie Kotter?"
"Hmm, Nattie Kotter. And what might those letters have been regarding?"
"Uuhh, Lib ... um, Liberace."
"Liberace? Well, let me think. Uh, Liberace, Liberace, let’s see ..." He leaned back in the chair again and touched a knuckle to his chin, cocking his head back as he thought, eyes closed. "Hmm. Was she the one — " He leaned forward again, snapping his fingers. " — she was receiving messages from Liberace about, um ... sex, wasn't it? About how she should, uh ... well, have sex with her husband? Who would ... of course ... be you."
Kotter winced and looked away. "Yeah, those're the letters."
"Well, I'm sorry to say I haven't been able to answer them. In fact, I'm afraid I don't remember them all that well. Things have been pretty busy around here, as I'm sure you noticed when you came in," Bent said, gesturing toward the telephone. "I'm afraid you'll just have to fill me in on what your wife had to say." Actually, Bent did remember those letters well and knew right away he was in for an embarrassing conversation. It would be a little less embarrassing, however, if he let Kotter give all the gory details and just sat back and listened.
"Oh. Well." It was Kotter's turn to roll his eyes, then lower his face into his palm as he sat silently in the chair. "Okay," he said finally and firmly, slapping his hands onto his knees decisively and digging his fingers into them hard. "Okay, here's the deal. Y'see, she thinks Liberace's talkin' to her, y'see. She thinks he's given' her these, uh ... well, y'know, these messages."
Bent shuffled over his desk and found his notebook, poised a pen to take notes, then asked, "What exactly are these messages, Mr. Kotter?"
"Well, y'know, like you said ... um, they were about sex. About sex between us ... her and me ... about the, um, kinda sex we have."
Bent leaned his head back and scratched under his chin with two fingers as he asked slowly, "Do you and your wife engage in a particular sexual practice of which Liberace disapproves?"
"Well, um ...” He looked down at his lap where his fingers fumbled with one another as he shrugged with one shoulder. "Yeah. Yeah, um, it's ... oral sex," he muttered.
"I'm sorry? Did you say oral sex?"
Kotter nodded.
Bent took some notes and continued jotting things down now and then through the rest of the conversation. "Did Liberace say why he was so opposed to you and your wife having oral sex?"
"Well ... look, Mr. Noble, you gotta remember ... this is comin' from my wife, okay? Not me."
"I understand."
"Okay. Well, Liberace, see, says that ... that his mother says it isn't right. She says that someone as devoted to him as Nattie is should be living a clean life, setting an example. Something like that. An
d she says that oral sex is dirty, so Liberace has been telling her she shouldn't do it because . . . well, like my wife says ... he does whatever his mother tells him."
"I see." Bent began tapping the eraser end of his pencil lightly on the notebook. "Why have you come to me with this, exactly? Not that I mind, of course. I'm just curious."
"Well, see, Liberace says — " He closed his eyes and sighed. "I mean, Nattie says that Liberace says that he has other things to say, and that she should contact you so you can write those things down and publish them in your paper."
"Mm-hm. Any idea what those things are?"
Kotter shook his head. "She won't tell me — only you. I think they were in some of her latest letters to you. All I know is that she doesn't want you to write about the sex thing. She's got somethin' more important to tell you. Whatever that is. Guess you'll have to talk to her."
"Why didn't she come?"
"Well, see, she's a little, um ... upset with you for not answering her letters. And she says you have to come see her. It's important that you come out to the trailer," he said. "Important to her, I mean."
"Mm-hm. And is she still, uh, denying you the, uh ...” He waved the pencil through the air vaguely.
"Oh, yeah. Yeah, she sure is. That's why I came to you. See, Nattie says that Liberace says that if you'll listen to what he has to say and you agree to write it for your paper, he might be able to persuade his mother to relax about the, uh ... y'know, the other thing."
"So, you want me to come out to your place ... have a talk with your wife ... write a piece about what Liberace has to say ... and then publish it so your wife will — "
Kotter suddenly interrupted in a burst of breath, "Boy, Mr. Noble, I sure wish you would."
"Why didn't you call me first? Save yourself the trip?"
"We, um ... we don't have a phone, for one thing. And I guess I preferred to meet with you in person."
"I see. So, my coming to see your wife is important to you, too." Bent said with a slight smile. "Well, I don't know, Mr. Kotter. I can't promise you any of it would end up in the Inquisitor because, of course, that sort of thing is all up to my editor. But, um ...” Bent chewed on the pencil, frowning as he tried hard to think of a way out of this. If the messages were coming from Elvis, he could pass it on to Kelsey at the Elvis Desk, but he'd never touch a Liberace story. In fact, there hadn't been a Liberace story since the guy died.