by Ray Garton
He thought again of Mr. Collins ... the gaping hole in his side ... the yellowish-white worms that seemed to wallow in his wound and his death.
Samuel's fear was a large stone in his chest. He wanted to scream, but he couldn't. His throat was dry and scratchy and his tongue kept sticking to the roof of his mouth.
The squirming hordes began to cover him.like a new skin, and Samuel tried to lift his hands to slap at them, to swat them, to brush them away, kill them ... but his arms felt like lead bars that each weighed more than his whole body and he couldn't life them, couldn't move his hands, couldn't even wiggle his fingers. His fear was weighing them down.
He lost track of time, even more completely than he had since he'd been taken from his family, and Samuel felt like he might have been in that casket for hours ... days ... weeks.
Finally, something inside Samuel broke. The huge stone in his chest seemed to crumble and he screamed endlessly, the sound deafening in the confined space. He slapped at himself again and again with his hands and kicked his legs furiously, screaming and screaming.
The lid opened and hands lifted his struggling body out of the casket. Fingers removed the hood.
Samuel continued to slap at himself frantically, still babbling and crying. But the worms were gone. He felt movement on his shoulders and began slapping at them, too, his bare feet bouncing on the cold floor as if he were doing a dance of some kind. But he was not dancing. He was hysterical.
"Now look inside the casket!" the man said with quiet urgency as he produced a small black flashlight from his robe and shined it into the oblong box, moving the beam back and forth over the box's floor.
Samuel's eyes had been as wide as they could get, he'd thought, but as he looked into that casket, they became so wide he feared they might shoot from their sockets.
There were hundreds ... no, thousands ... millions, trillions of them squirming and writhing over one another, forming one long, yellowish-white, undulating mass ... the same tiny worms he'd found eating Mr. Collins.
As Samuel backed away from the casket, crying and babbling, the two men grabbed him and reattached the leashes to his collar. Samuel turned to one of them and embraced him, wanting to be held, protected, craving the big, stone arms of his dad, but the man smacked the side of Samuel's head, knocking him away, and barked, "Get the fuck away from me, you little nigger shit!"
"Maggots!" the man with the flashlight hissed. "That's what they are, maggots. And this is just a lesson, that's all. Understand? Listen carefully, and look at me. If you — look at me!” the man hissed wetly, clutching Samuel's small face in one large, gloved hand and jerking it toward him hard. "If you ever happen to leave us ... if you ever tell anyone what you see here ... if you ever refuse to obey us ... if you ever cause any trouble here at all ... you will be put back in that casket. But without the undershorts. Without the hood. We will seal the casket shut and bury it in the ground. Just you and aaallll those maggots. And they will crawl into all your holes — do you understand what I mean by that, Samuel? — they will crawl into your nose and your ears, they will work their way into your eyes, they will crawl into your bottom ... into your rectum, the hole in your bottom ... and they will crawl into your penis. Do you know what that is? Where you pee? Your penis, Samuel. They will crawl inside you and eat you alive because you will be left buried inside that coffin. You will rot, and they will eat ... you ... to the bone!" He leaned down and pressed his hooded face to Samuel's and through the slits Samuel saw his light blue eyes. The man whispered, "They will eat you from the inside out ... slowly ... and you will feel them in you, eating and nibbling away at you ... slowly. Do you understand?"
Although the maggots were gone, Samuel could still feel them crawling all over him as if he were still in the casket, and he was still squirming, jerking, twitching. He nodded quickly, afraid of what would happen if he didn't, and yammered, "Yes, yes, yes, yes."
"You have nowhere to go, Samuel," the man whispered, his tone changed now, almost friendly. "You have no one to turn to but us. We are your life now. This is your life now, here. Your life is whatever we tell you it is, whatever we tell you to do. And here ... your god ... is Satan." He waved his hands and Samuel heard the whisper of curtains being pulled back. "We know your father is a preacher, Samuel, one of god's useless, lying disciples. But now ... now you worship Satan, the Prince of Darkness."
When the man pointed, Samuel's eyes followed the finger and his gibbering and shaking calmed, then stopped. It was replaced by a deep, cold, clutching fear. Not a fear of what he saw, but a fear much deeper than that, more instinctive ... a fear that told him this truly was his life from now on.
What Samuel saw was a gigantic golden figure with the muscular torso and arms — outstretched at the sides — of a man, an enormous penis jutting outward rigidly and the furry legs and hooves of a goat. The head, too, was that of a goat, with fat, ridged, curved homs and eyes of deep red. In its left fist, it held a cross upside down. In its right, it held a bony, puny, naked figure of Christ wearing a crown of thorns and apparently being crushed in the massive fist.
"Jesus has no place here," the man said. "God is not welcome. They are tyrants and liars. Your god now is Satan and you will worship him just like all of us. And he will be watching you, remember that. Satan always watches. So if you do something wrong, if you even think something wrong ... we will know. And you will be buried in the casket with the maggots. You will come here again. Many times and for other reasons. And there will be no more yelling and blubbering out of you, Samuel, otherwise ...” He shined the light in the casket again, moving the beam slowly over the crawling bed of maggots. He laughed quietly, then ever so gently patted Samuel on top of his head ...
When they took him back to his room, he lay in bed naked, squirming, twitching, brushing frantically at himself now and then, wide awake for many hours afterward ...
5
Ever since then, Samuel had remained alone in the blackness of the room — except when the lights worked or when he received a visitor, like the clown, or the Santa Claus, or, worst of all, that man dressed as Jesus, all of whom did bad things to him — and tried to track the passage of time. It was impossible.
Every once in a while, he would think a prayer, just a quick one, really fast, just in case what that man had told him was true and they really could find out what he was thinking. The prayers were so brief that they passed through his mind like flashes of lightning, but they were sincere and he meant every word.
Dear god, please show my parents where I am please in Jesus' name amen.
Dear god, please don't let them hurt me anymore in Jesus' name amen.
Dear god, I promise not to worship Satan like they said please help me in Jesus' name amen.
And there was another prayer he prayed often, hoping god would still listen even though he'd been made to do such awful, sinful things. If the prayer was answered, he thought it might make his stay here more bearable, however long it might be. That prayer was:
Dear God, please let me see that lady again please please please 'cause she's nice to me in Jesus' name amen ...
PART FIVE
Liar, Muckraker, Whore
1
The Vallejo Police Department was a large, two-story, rather colorless building. Inside, Bent waited at the counter that separated him from several police officers and secretaries seated at desks. It was noisy and busy, and even in the age of computers, he could hear, somewhere in the din, the clacking of a typewriter or two being used.
The desk sergeant, whose name tag read Sgt. Phil Douglas, was on the telephone as Bent approached him. He was in his forties with thinning blond hair and a jowly, tired face. His round midsection was stretching his uniform to its limit and the wedding band on his left hand was nearly buried in flesh that bulged above and below it.
He dropped the receiver in its cradle and glanced at Bent while making notes on a pad. "Help you?" he asked.
"Yes, my name is Bentley Noble
and I'd like to see the chief of police, if he's available."
"And what would this be regarding?" He dropped his pen and looked up at Bent with heavy-lidded eyes.
"The disappearance of Samuel Walker."
Sergeant Douglas leaned forward, elbows on the desk, hands clasped beneath his chin, and appeared to become more alert as he looked closely at Bent. His eyes moved over Bent's face, frowning, then he asked, "So, um ... what? Do you have him?"
It sounded rather sarcastic, but the sergeant looked very serious.
"Oh, no—no—no. I just have some information about the boy's disappearance that I thought he might be interested in hearing."
Still watching him sharply, Douglas asked, "Have you seen the boy?"
"No, but I have something that might — "
"What'd you say your name was?" Douglas asked, picking up the pen again.
Bent stiffened his back, beginning to get annoyed. "If you don't mind, I'd like to tell everything to your chief, please."
Douglas scribbled on the pad. "Are you a friend of the boy's? Friend of the family?"
After a moment, Bent nodded slowly. "Yes, I suppose you could call me a friend of the family."
Douglas stopped writing and looked at Bent. "And how did you come by this information."
"I'm a reporter, and I talked to one of the — "
Douglas dropped the pen, laughing. "A reporter? And you say you're a friend of the family?" He laughed again, shaking his head. "I'd love to hear their story."
"Look, can I see — "
"Just a second." Douglas picked up his telephone, punched three numbers, and talked quietly for a moment. He looked Bent in the eyes as he laughed into the receiver, then he hung up. "He's got a few minutes for you. Go down that hall to the elevator and take it up. Turn left. His office is the second door on the left. But I can tell you right now, he's not gonna give you a story."
Bent gave the sergeant his best shit-eating grin. "Oh, I already have a story."
"And what might that be?"
"That the Vallejo Police Department has ignored the disappearance of Samuel Walker — most likely because he's black — and have also ignored pertinent information given to them by neighbors."
Douglas started laughing and shaking his head again. "Okay. You go tell that to the chief, why don't you?"
Bent started to walk away, but stopped, turned back to the desk. "You know, I'm very surprised. I had no idea that police departments made sergeants fill the positions of front desk receptionist."
The sergeant's eyes narrowed and his smile disappeared. His jaws flexed as he clenched his teeth a few times. Without taking his eyes away from Bent, Douglas picked up the receiver and punched some numbers into the telephone.
"Thank you, Sergeant Douglas," Bent said with a smile. Then he turned and headed for the elevator ...
Chief William Cotchell was a beefy black man of average height, bald on top with a scalp so shiny it looked waxed, and an underbite that jutted his jaw so that he always looked at least upset, even a bit angry, although he was smiling coldly as Bent entered, his large, pocked cheeks puffing out at the sides. All of his teeth had small spaces between them, and the way his lower teeth almost touched his upper lip made him resemble a bulldog.
"So, you're the reporter who thinks we're ignoring the Walker boy because he's black," he said amiably, standing behind his desk and smiling broadly.
Bent's stomach shrank as he glanced at the chiefs name placard on the desk. "Well, to tell you the truth, Chief Cotchell, I was willing to say just about anything to get to see you, because I have a piece of information I really think you'd appreciate."
"Oh, you do, now, do you? Well, why don't you and your piece of information have a seat right there." He waved toward a chair facing the desk as he seated himself in the squeaky chair behind his desk. His voice was friendly but filled with doubt and more than a hint of sarcasm. Once Bent had seated himself, Cotchell asked, "So, let's hear it."
"Well," Bent said, reaching into the inside breast pocket of his gray sportcoat and removing his microcassette recorder, "would you mind if I recorded our conversation?"
Still smiling as if he were at a backyard barbecue, Cotchell said, "You have no idea how much I would mind, and I would appreciate it if you put that away immediately."
Bent froze on his way to putting the recorder on the desk, then he nodded. "Okay. If you say so." As he slipped it back into the inside pocket of his coat, he hit the record button with his thumb. "I really don't want to impose. Mostly, I'm here to tell you about something I've learned about the Walker case."
"The suspense is killing me."
"A neighbor of the Walkers saw a flat-black Mustang driving around the neighborhood about two weeks before the boy's disappearance. She said it would drive along, then slow way down, then drive farther, then slow down again, over and over. But most importantly, she said there was something hanging from the rearview mirror. It was an upside-down cross."
Cotchell didn't move for a while, just stared at Bent, as if waiting for more. When nothing more came, Cotchell said quietly, "My god, you've solved the case."
Bent leaned forward slowly, put his elbows on the desk, and said, "You don't understand. She said the police weren't interested in the car or what was hanging from its mirror because she hadn't seen it on the day the boy disappeared, but it could be something. She said the car was driving around a couple weeks before the boy's disappearance, slowing down now and then, like I said. As if he was looking for something. It sounded to me like he was maybe scouting the area."
"And he had an upside-down cross hanging from his rearview mirror."
"Yes, that's right."
"So, what is that; uuhhh ... witchcraft? Black magic? Fill me in. Gimme the rest of your story."
"Well, I'm not saying that — "
"What paper you with?"
"Uh ... well, I'm kind of — "
"Gimme some kinda proof you're a reporter."
"Please, let me explain, I'm — "
"Gimme your wallet."
Bent froze.
"Now."
Bent still didn't move, just stared at the chief.
"You gimme your wallet now," Cotchell said, "or I'll figure some way to arrest you just for sittin' in that chair."
Their eyes remained locked for a moment as Cotchell continued to smile, then Bent removed his wallet and handed it over. The police chief searched it thoroughly, until he removed what he'd been looking for: a business-card.
"The Global Inquisitor," he said with a laugh. "I'm not surprised. We've seen your kind around here a lot, you know. Crawling all over this story, and others. I see your paper in the grocery store. Sometimes the wife buys it. But then, she believes everything she sees on those daytime talk shows, too. Yeah, I know what kinda work you do, and I wouldn't exactly call you a reporter. Know what you are, Mr. Noble?" He leaned way over the desk toward Bent, and his smile melted away. "You're a liar, you know that? A liar and a muckraker. You're a whore!" He emphasized the last word by throwing the wallet back at Bent. Hard. Bent caught it clumsily, surprised.
The large man stood behind his desk, fists clenched at his sides. "You oughta get on your knees and pray for forgiveness for ever getting near this case and the family involved. I don't know the Walkers personally, but I've got family in Ethan Walker's congregation, and I know the good work he's done in this community. I heard about this? About his boy? I wanted to puke! Because I know what the chances are of that boy ever being found." He walked around to the front of the desk and towered over Bent. "And whatever you and that filthy pile of used toilet paper you work for might think, we are doing everything we can to find that boy! So is the whole damned community. It's bad enough that the Walkers have to go through this, but now they're being preyed on by you and your fucking rag! I'm not gonna let that happen, Mr. Noble."
"Please, let me tell you why I'm covering this story," Bent said quickly, "because it's not what you — "
&
nbsp; "Get the fuck outta my office and outta this building or I'll remove you myself with my foot! Understand me?"
Bent stood and said, "It's not what you think, really, I've been assigned to do a — "
"Get the fuck outta here noowwww!" Cotchell bellowed so loudly that Bent could feel the man's voice in his chest.
"I'm going, I'm going." Bent turned and hurried out of the office and back to the elevator.
Angry and frustrated, Bent walked out of the elevator and glanced at Sergeant Douglas's desk as he passed.
Douglas was staring at him intently, as if he'd been waiting for Bent to show up. As he stared, he held the telephone receiver to his ear and his mouth moved rapidly, speaking into the mouthpiece.
Bent slowed just a bit and looked at Douglas again.
A thin sheen of perspiration glowed above Douglas's upper lip as he spoke rapidly into the telephone, looking directly into Bent's eyes. For a moment his wiggling lips seemed to take on a smirk.
Bent picked up his pace, glancing back only once at Sergeant Douglas's staring eyes, then left the police station ...
"Hey, Chief. What was that little visit all about?" Cotchell looked up from his desk to see Sergeant Douglas filling the open doorway of his office.
"Oh, some damned tabloid reporter. My god, they're not human." He leaned back in his chair and sighed. "He thinks he's gonna get something from us about the Walker case. Something to use in his fucking paper, something to lie about. They're a bunch of fucking vultures. Piranha!"
"What paper?"
"The Inquisitor."
"Oh, yeah. What a piece of shit, huh?"
"You're telling me."
"He said he had some information about the boy."
"Nothing but a load of crap. Something about a car driving around the neighborhood with an upside-down cross hanging from the rearview mirror." Cotchell rubbed his eyes with a thumb and forefinger and sighed.
"Oh? Is that right?"