Shackled

by Ray Garton

  "How long do you think this will take?" Mrs. Walker asked.

  "Well, my superiors would like me to follow you through the whole process," Bent said before sipping his coffee.

  "The whole process?" Pastor Walker barked. "Of what?"

  Bent tried to conceal the sudden trembling of his hand as he replaced the mug on its coaster on the coffee table. "Of finding your son," he said reluctantly.

  Pastor Walker's eyes grew wider and began to shimmer with the ghost of unshed tears. "But what if ... our son ... is not ... found?"

  Bent took another quick sip of coffee, giving himself a moment to think. "We realize that's a distinct possibility, of course. But we have the same hope ... the same faith ... that we want to instill in our readers. I'm sure it's the same faith that's gotten both of you through this tragedy so far. But at the same time, we feel that faith is best accompanied by action. That's why we want to do whatever we can to help. There's a lot of money behind the Inquisitor, and it reaches millions of people, like I said. We want to help."

  After a moment of thought, the pastor stood. "When would you like to start, Bent?"

  "How about this evening?" Bent asked, standing as well, though he wasn't quite sure why. Was he being rushed out? "I'd like to take you to dinner."

  Mrs. Walker stood and went to her husband's side, smiling. "Well, to do that, we'd have to get a baby-sitter for Anice, but, uh ... well, under the circumstances, I'm sure you understand that we don't like to leave her. Even with someone we trust."

  The pastor said, "But you're welcome to come over here for dinner."

  "Better yet," Bent said, "why don't I make dinner?" They glanced at one another and Mrs. Walker said, "Are you serious?"

  "Hey, I'm a great cook. I can bring a bunch of groceries over and make a gourmet meal. You like veal picatta?"

  They both laughed. "Who doesn't?" Pastor Walker said.

  "While we're eating," Bent added, "would you mind if I put a tape recorder on the table and asked some questions?"

  They agreed to that, then on a time: six o'clock. They followed Bent to the door and even thanked him for coming.

  In the car, he put some Queen in the tape deck and turned it up louder than usual so he couldn't hear his voice as he shouted at himself, "You whore! You scummy, lying, shit-eating whore!"

  3

  Anice was holding her stuffed Big Bird when she came out of her room and went to her father, curling up on his lap when he returned to his chair. He tickled her ribs and said, "Is my baby awake, or are you just foolin' us, huh?"

  She giggled and squirmed, then hugged Ethan and gave him a wet kiss on the cheek. "I gotta go potty."

  "Then you go potty, sweetheart."

  The instant she was gone, Ethan's smile disappeared. His face became grave and he covered his mouth with a hand that rubbed back and forth, back and forth.

  Loraina hunkered down beside Ethan's chair and placed a soft hand on his. "Are you sure we're doing the right thing?" she asked.

  "I don't know," he murmured.

  "Do you think he's telling the truth?"

  "He seems to be. His editor confirmed it. In fact, the editor even offered to let me talk to the publisher. I don't see how he could be lying with all these people so eager to back him up. But then again ... the Global Inquisitor?"

  "Yes, I know. But it's national coverage. Maybe he's right. What if someone sees Samuel's picture and recognizes him. What if they see him someplace and call the police or the paper and let them know?"

  "Yeah, yeah, I know."

  "Then how come you're so upset, sweetie?"

  "Because if the only paper willing to help us out is the Inquisitor, then I'm going to have to change my opinion of the American press. Of the whole country, as a matter of fact."

  "What does that matter?" she whispered. "If they help, then they help. If the others aren't interested, then let's take what we can get!"

  "Yeah, but ... why is it that the only paper willing to help is one as unscrupulous and immoral as the Inquisitor?" he asked, clenching his teeth over the last few words.

  Loraina leaned her forehead on his arm and was silent for a long moment. Ethan hardly noticed because he was so deep in thought. Suddenly Loraina lifted his hand to her lips and kissed it, then raised her eyes to his. They were wet and tears were trickling down her cheeks.

  "Please, Ethan," she whispered. "If they're willing to help, maybe we should let them. No matter who they are."

  They embraced, held each other for a while, then Anice called for her mother. Loraina stood slowly, reluctantly.

  "I'll be right back," she said.

  "No, that's all right," he replied, standing as well. "I'm going to my office. I have some work to do."

  They kissed briefly. Loraina headed for the bathroom and Ethan went into his office, closing the door behind him.

  He stood in the middle of the office for a long time, grinding his teeth, looking at nothing in particular, not moving. Then, quite suddenly, he shot forward raising both fists, and he slammed them down on the desktop, side by side, then spread them out violently, knocking books and stacks of paper and the telephone to the floor. Growling deep in his throat, he swept his left arm across the desktop, as if he were delivering a backhand on a tennis court, and swept his old, sturdy Royal typewriter and the desk lamp onto the floor. The typewriter's bell rang when it landed, and the lamp's bulb burst with a muffled pop. He kicked his chair hard and it wheeled squeakily over the floor and slammed into a bookcase, but the kick sent him off balance and he fell to the floor hard. Crying quietly.

  He sat up and clumsily moved to the desk on his knees. Elbows on the edge of the desk, he covered his teary face with his hands and prayed aloud into his palms.

  "Please god, please take away my anger. I don't want to be like this, but it's my boy ... my little boy, my son. You know what this is like. You've seen your son die. Please, lord ... give us our son back, I'm begging. And bring me above this anger, this hatred, this ... this bile. Take it away."

  The office door opened and Loraina burst in. "What happened?" she asked, sounding frightened.

  He didn't move.

  When she saw him there, kneeling at his desk, crying, his shoulders hitching with sobs, and when she saw the mess he had made of his office, she closed the door and locked it so Anice couldn't come in. Then she knelt at his side and put an arm around him.

  Once again, they embraced and they both cried together.

  It was not the first time, and they both knew it would not be the last ...

  4

  "Hi, Coll? It's Bent." He sat in one of the vinyl-upholstered chairs in the motel room, smoking a cigarette, one ankle on a knee, foot bobbing.

  "Hey, Bent, how are you?" he said in that deep voice of his that made the receiver vibrate a little. "What's going on? Anything new?"

  "Not under the entire sun. Same bullshit, different town."

  "You're not in L.A.? Where are you?"

  "Vallejo."

  "No shit? Well, we're a couple skips and a jump apart, we've gotta get together. How long will you be here?"

  "Indefinitely."

  "Indefinitely? Is this work?"

  "Yep."

  "Your editor sent you to Vallejo on assignment ... indefinitely."

  "I'm afraid so."

  "What happened, did he catch you in bed with his wife or something? That sounds like some kind of punishment. Vallejo's not my idea of a good time."

  "No, see, our boss wants more heartwarming and inspiring stories for our readers, so I'm here covering the heartwarming and inspiring story of a pastor and his wife whose little boy was apparently snatched right off the sidewalk somewhere near their house."

  "Yeah, I know the story."

  "Have you been following it?"

  "What's to follow? It's in the papers and on the news for two days in a row, the third day they mention it, just to give you a titillating little scare and remind you to keep a close eye on your kids, and then the
y never bring it up again."

  "Why? I mean, maybe somebody's seen the kid or something."

  Bent could almost hear Coll shrug through the connection. "Happens too often. You'd know if you'd sit down and read one of my damned books someday. I'm gonna stop giving you those signed copies, you know."

  Bent let the jab pass; he was used to them.

  "Anyway," Coll went on, "I wrote a book on childnapping, which I'm sure you haven't cracked open since you got it."

  "So, they happen that often around here, huh? Childnappings?"

  "Well, my book covered nationwide incidents and statistics, not just the Bay Area, but yeah, it happens a lot around here. Hell, where you're at right now they've had four since New Year's Day. And that's not counting the one you're covering now."

  "Well ... jeez, I can imagine in New York having a lot — "

  "Oh, no, we're not talking about New York, here, we're talking about everywhere. The whole country. It happens in the biggest city and the smallest one-fire-hydrant burg. You know how many kids disappeared last year and were never found, dead or alive? How does thousands sound? I mean, I don't have the exact stats in front of me, but we're talking thousands."

  Bent closed his eyes for a long moment, leaning his head back, then sighed heavily as he crushed his cigarette in the ashtray. "Five kidnappings since January right here in Vallejo? Hasn't anybody tried to establish a connection?"

  "Everybody. No, I'm sure if there was a connection, we'd know it by now. At least people like us, who know what to look for in the police statements printed in the papers."

  "So the police are going to tell me ...”

  "Probably the same thing they've told everyone else, the stuff we've read in the papers and seen on one of those grinfests they call TV news around here. I'd bet my next advance you won't get anything more than that."

  Frowning, not even thinking about it, he flicked another cigarette to life, leaving a long silence on the line.

  There were often long silences on the line between them, but they'd each learned to wait them out patiently; silence almost always meant thinking.

  "Well, how about you?" Bent finally asked clumsily.

  "What do you mean?"

  "You know anybody? I mean, like a cop around here, or somebody like that? Somebody who could get me on the inside?"

  "No, you don't understand. See, with these things, there's almost never an inside. They really don't know any more than they're telling. Oh, yeah, once in a very great while, they'll get really lucky and have enough stuff on the case to withhold information from the press to lure the 'napper or throw him a curve, or something like that. But that only happens when they have a suspect or, if they're really lucky, when they've got proof the kid has been taken across state lines, so they bring in the Feds, and that only happens when there's evidence that involves some sort of childnapping ring where these people are going around snatching kids, just grabbing them, that's what they do — it's their job. But, Bent, I'm afraid that almost never happens. If that's what happened here, it ... well, it just doesn't sound right. They didn't give us enough information to be giving out false information. I'm afraid what you've got is ... what you're gonna get."

  Bent sighed again.

  "I could be wrong, but ... well, you'd know how intricately I covered this subject if you'd read the damned book."

  "Um, these kids, Coll ... I suppose they aren't being taken to Disneyland."

  "Oh, no. No, no, afraid not." His voice was quiet, almost a nimbly whisper. "Imagine the worst things you can think of, Bent, the most horrible, obscene things, and multiply them by ten ... and you won't be anywhere near where those kids are taken or what's done to them. Why do you think they're almost never found?"

  Bent blew the smoke from his lungs hard, the way Barbara Bergenstern did, except he did it through clenched teeth. "Yeah. I see."

  "Boy, if you're supposed to be writing a heartwarming, uplifting story, you're sure asking all the wrong questions."

  "Hmph. Some kinda heartwarming, huh? I tried to talk to Fleck, but he wouldn't listen. I mean, what's uplifting about a kid just disappearing and never being found again? That's not even a good story."

  "Now you're getting the picture. See what I mean? What's to report? So the press ignores it and people all across the country are once again being lulled into a deeper sleep by remaining blind to just one more horrible thing that's going on around them day after day."

  Bent clenched his eyes and rubbed one hard with the heel of his cigarette hand. "So, what do I do! They're expecting a story every week."

  "Look, I'm just giving you what I know, okay? I'm talking about statistics, that's all. Every story's gotta be a little different, right? Maybe something will break on this one after a while and you can make your readers happy."

  "Oh, yeah, thanks. You know, pep talks don't work ten seconds after you've kicked me in the nuts."

  "Just telling you what I know. Look, give your paper what it wants. Write a story every week, a nice story about the strength of the family and the support of the neighbors and how people always pull together in a tragedy and you and I can hang around here until your editor gives up, cancels your credit card, and tells you to come home."

  Bent smiled slowly and said, "Yeah, I guess that's all I can do."

  "When do you want to get together? Tonight? Hell, you can stay in the spare room while you're here, if you don't mind the ride."

  "I've got some things to do this afternoon. I want to talk to a few of the neighbors, see what I can get out of them, then I'm having dinner with the Walkers. Why don't I call you."

  Bent gave Coll his phone number, then Coll said, "Hey, how's the beverages."

  "A lot of close calls, but fine so far. How about you?"

  "Hanging on. Where you staying?"

  "The Lamplighter Inn."

  "Oooh, sounds elegant. Take a dip in your private Jacuzzi for me, okay?"

  Bent hung up smiling, but his smile faded slowly as his thoughts darkened.

  Those children ... all those children ...

  5

  "I don't wanna talk to ya!" the flabby man said. He stood there in a stained undershirt and enormous yellow plaid boxers. His skin looked like melting vanilla ice cream and his lower lip was roughly the color and consistency of an unhealthy human liver. "An' I won't talk to ya!" He was about to slam the door, then moved forward again suddenly and growled, "An' you oughtta leave them poor people alone, too. They had enough happen to 'em without you — "

  "But, sir, I've already talked to the Walkers and — "

  "Yeah, I betchoo have, an' I hope they kicked your nosey, reportin' ass onna sidewalk, is what I hope."

  The door was slammed so hard and so suddenly that it never seemed to have been open in the first place.

  He went to the next house. The response he got there was remarkably similar to the one he'd gotten from the previous house.

  He crossed the street and tried a couple more. At one house, he could hear music and voices inside, but in spite of the doorbell and several knocks, the people inside at least had the decency not to come out, yell at him, call him names, and slam the door in his face. They simply did not come to the door.

  Bent was beginning to feel like a Jehovah's Witness, annoying people at their doors with badly printed literature and "just a few words about the problems in the world today."

  He remembered how Cami used to take in people like that — real nuts who couldn't walk in a door without handing you a tract or finish a sentence without quoting a bible verse — and have them for dinner, or even let them sleep on the sofa a night or two if they needed. It drove him nuts. When he complained about it, about the people being loopy and the possibility that one of them just might be some kind of con artist — or, worse yet, a psychopath — she'd always say calmly, "Oh, they're all harmless. Just a little lost. And rejected, too. See how you feel about them? Think of how everyone else feels about them."

  "The same way I do, I w
ould imagine," he'd responded sarcastically one day.

  "That's right. And it's wrong. These people have feelings, just like everyone. They're unaccepted, so they need someone to accept them, let them know they're okay, that they're really no different from anyone else when it comes right down to it. That's why they join such strange groups. Religious groups or cults or political organizations. Because they are accepted there, and that is all they want. So, I try to give that to them. Acceptance. I wish you would, too. After all, we're here in this world for each other, all of us, right?"

  Defeated once again, Bent said, "I guess that's as good an explanation for our being here as any."

  Now that he was on the receiving end of the same rudeness and name-calling that had been commonplace in the lives of those people Cami had taken in, to whom she'd always been so kind, he began to understand what Cami had said, rather than just accept it as an explanation.

  He hated that ... when something just spontaneously brought to mind the little things Cami used to say, the way she'd gently chide him for being hurtful or inconsiderate to others. God, he hated that.

  What would she think about this, what he was doing here? How would she feel about Bent making his living at a paper that was nothing more than a vampire perched on the racks of supermarket checkout stands, just waiting for another victim, another stupid, gullible, hypnotized victim? What would she think about that?

  "Sorry, Cami, honey," he breathed to himself as he climbed three steps to another door.

  This time, it opened on the first knock.

  A young woman stood in the doorway, probably in her early twenties, just slightly plump. Her face was beautiful with skin as black as night. A small silver crucifix was hanging around her neck and she wore a blue and white scarf over her hair, a simple blue housedress, and a large grin. Tucked under her left arm and resting on her hip was a squirming baby wearing a tiny white sweatshirt with a picture of Barney the dinosaur on the front and a cloth diaper above its stubby legs.