Shackled

by Ray Garton

  Corbus dabbed his lips with the napkin as he swallowed a bite of food, then said, "Tell me. Seeing how you were on the receiving end as a child, don't you find our work here just a bit repugnant? After all, you were once one of the frightened, deceived children we use here. Doesn't it bother you?"

  She smiled across the table at him without effort, knowing he was testing her just a little. "I never judged what Burt and Corinne did, Dr. Corbus. I simply understood it. And when the opportunity came, I left them to make my own way in the world. But without them, I wouldn't be the person I am today."

  "No, you would not," Dr. Corbus said, his voice filled with a new warmth. "I consider the person you are today to be a very valuable addition to my staff, Dr. Melton. Very valuable, indeed."

  Each of them smiling, they finished their meal in a comfortable silence ...

  PART SEVEN

  Busy Work, Warnings, and Realizations

  1

  Bent awoke at six-fifteen the next morning and could not get back to sleep, so he got up, showered, and dressed. He left Coll's apartment without waking him, leather bag slung over his shoulder, had a quick breakfast at a small and crowded greasy-spoon diner, and headed for the San Francisco Library. Normally, Bent did not enjoy going to libraries, no matter what the reason; they were much too quiet for him, and aside from not liking silence to begin with, he found it especially unnerving when it was full of people.

  Once inside, he looked around until he located the long, U-shaped counter designated as INFORMATION & ASSISTANCE. Behind it sat three women, a young, friendly-looking black woman who was already occupied with someone else, and two other women, both much older, one a blue-haired Caucasian woman and the other a small Asian woman with strips of gray in her black hair. After a moment of thought, he headed for the Asian woman; she looked like his best bet for some friendly help.

  His footsteps echoed off the granite floor, mixing with the gentle clacks and chitches of the many other footsteps in the cavernous building, and the elderly little Asian woman looked up from some cards she was returning to their books. Bent wasn't quite sure if she was standing or sitting. He smiled as he approached. She did not.

  "Hello, there," he said quietly, pleasantly, leaning toward her. She was standing. "Um, I've never been to your library before — it's beautiful, by the way — and I don't know my way around. My name's Bentley Noble. I'm a reporter, and — "

  "Wha' you wan'?" she asked, her words running together. She spoke so suddenly that Bent flinched.

  "Oh, okay, um, I'm interested in the number of child disappearances in the Bay Area within the last year."

  "Wha' Bay Alea?"

  Bent's eyebrows rose high. "Uuhh ... well, this Bay Area."

  "You meanna who' Bay Alea?"

  "Well ... yes."

  She muttered something in her own language, shaking her head, then asked, "Where you flom?"

  "Los Angeles. Well, New York, before that."

  More muttering and head shaking, then, "Weh, das plitty big. So you wan' rook at newspaper ahticuhs?"

  "Well, yes."

  "You wan' rook at evly Bay Alea newspaper?"

  "If I could."

  More muttering and head shaking.

  "Well, look, I was just wondering if you had a subject index that would cover that, because all I really need is the dates and locations of the disappearances, so — "

  "Index on miclofiche. Newspapers on miclofim. Hafta rook it up yourseff."

  "Oh, well, yes, of course."

  "Okay, okay," she sighed, annoyed. "Forrow me." She shook her head as she led him through the labyrinthine library, muttering to herself all the while in her native tongue.

  Or maybe she has a hairball, Bent thought with a smirk.

  The woman showed him everything he needed and gave him, in broken English and a rude tone, instructions on how to find what he wanted.

  "You have plob'em," she said, "don' come me. I busy. Go somebody ess."

  After she left Bent to himself, he went to work with a sigh, knowing it was going to be tedious and perhaps not even the least bit productive, but he'd decided to try anyway.

  The idea had occurred to him the night before while lying in bed. He'd known immediately that it might lead nowhere and be nothing more than a waste of time, but he'd decided to at least spend the next morning at the library jotting down the dates and locations of every listed child disappearance in the Bay Area over the last year, a length of time he'd chosen arbitrarily. At least, he planned to record those child disappearances that were mentioned in the local papers. He didn't expect all of them to be listed, but he planned to make a list of all that he could find.

  His first mistake had been in underestimating the scope of the Bay Area. The cities and towns were only a small part of it; the real Bay Area spanned nine counties, and contrary to his previous belief, its largest city was not San Francisco but San Jose, which was in the South Bay. Then, of course, there was the North Bay. And, naturally, the East Bay. He was relieved to find that the West Bay was largely unpopulated, as it was made up of the Pacific Ocean.

  It didn't take long for him to realize he wouldn't get it all done in one morning. But he didn't want to have to come back and continue, so in spite of the burning tension ache in his shoulders and neck, he plowed through it as quickly as possible without taking a break. He jotted the dates and places down on a yellow legal pad, deciding to include the names of the children who had disappeared. He didn't look at his watch, because he didn't want to know how much time was passing; he just kept going.

  When he was done, his right hand throbbed from all the writing and felt twice its size, and he wasn't sure his neck would ever be the same; the muscles in his shoulders burned miserably and became even worse when he sat up and finally tried to stand, which was when the burning got even worse and he thought his neck would snap, sending his head to the floor with a heavy thunk.

  Once he'd returned everything to its place, had everything back in his bag and the bag slung back over his shoulder, Bent headed out of the library, wincing as he rubbed his neck hard with his left hand. He passed the INFORMATION & ASSISTANCE counter on his way out and saw the little old Asian woman. Her lips were moving with the speed and silence of lightning as she shook her head slowly and watched him leave.

  It wasn't until he found a parking ticket under his windshield wiper that he checked his watch for the time: almost two-thirty in the afternoon.

  He sat in his car for a while, thinking about what to do next, then started the engine and headed for Vallejo ...

  Of those people willing to speak to him, one elderly widower-stooped and mostly bald with large moles or perhaps spots of skin cancer on his face, no upper teeth, and wearing baggy green pants and a stained undershirt — said that he, too, had seen a black Mustang driving slowly around the neighborhood, even coming to a stop at times.

  "Really?" Bent asked enthusiastically, pulling his micro-cassette recorder from his pocket and turning it on. "Okay, would you mind repeating that? You saw what!"

  The man repeated it for Bent's recorder.

  "Other than the way it was driving through the neighborhood, did you happen to notice anything else? Like, say, the driver?"

  "Well-uh, yes-uh, there was-uh ... I believe it was a man, because the driver was baldin'. So if it wasn't a man, it was a woman who din't have the good sense to wear a wig."

  "Did you notice anything else? Maybe something unusual about, say, the inside of the car?"

  "No, no, can't say I did. A'course, I usually divide my 'tention between what's goin' on outside the window an' my stories on TV, so I guess that don' mean a whole lot."

  "Do you have any idea how many times you saw him?"

  "Oh ... four. Mebbe five times. Mebbe even half a dozen. I wasn't really payin' a whole lotta 'tention. You gotta whole buncha beautiful women sleepin' around on the tee-vee all afternoon, you ain't as likely to pay much 'tention to what's goin' on outside the window, know what I mean?" />
  Bent tried for a big smile, trying hard to hide his frustration. "Yes, I think I do. Thank you very much, anyway."

  "Oh, no pro'lem. No pro'lem at all." The old man hobbled backward and closed the door as Bent went down the front steps.

  He went to other houses, too, and encountered two more people who wanted nothing to do with him, but most were very friendly, even if they couldn't help him. None of the other people he talked to had seen a black Mustang driving around the neighborhood during the weeks before Samuel Walker's disappearance, with or without an upside-down cross hanging from the rearview mirror.

  When he was finished knocking on doors in the neighborhood, Bent took a breather in his car, then went to the Walkers'. He spent two hours with them, politely turning down their invitation to have dinner with them that evening. Mostly, he wanted to know if they'd heard anything from the police.

  They had not.

  "Have you called them?" he asked.

  Both Ethan and Loraina shook their heads silently. Their little girl was singing and talking to herself in her room.

  "Would you do me a favor?" Bent asked, somewhat reluctantly.

  "What would that be?" Ethan asked.

  "Call them now? Either one of you, it doesn't matter. The thing is ... I'd like to record the conversation. I'd like to get their response on tape."

  Ethan leaned forward and rubbed a hand over his mouth slowly as he frowned, then said, "Isn't that illegal, my friend?"

  "Well, as a matter of fact, yes. It's a felony."

  "A ... felony? Isn't there some way to avoid that?"

  "Well ... you have to tell the person you're calling that the conversation is being recorded. But that's the problem. If they know, they'll behave differently. I don't want them to. This is the only way I can let the public know how your case is being handled ... or if it's being handled."

  Ethan nodded slowly, frowning, but he said nothing for a moment. Instead, he looked down at the floor thoughtfully, reached up, and tugged at his chin with thumb and forefinger. "I don't know, Bent," he said quietly, his eyes narrowing to a squint. "Even under these circumstances, I'm not too comfortable with the idea of committing a crime. Somehow ... it just doesn't feel right. It's a little too close to stooping to the level of my son's kidnappers."

  Bent sighed. For a moment he'd forgotten he was dealing with a minister. "I understand your reluctance, Ethan. But even though this is a crime on the books, it's really not hurting anyone. And if it'll make you feel any better, I promise to erase the tape as soon as I've written down everything the police say. I just want to be able to quote them verbatim."

  Ethan turned to Loraina, who watched him silently, waiting for him to decide.

  "If they're not doing their job to find Samuel," Bent said, "we can at least see to it they're made to do their job with the next missing child. Right, Ethan?"

  After a moment Ethan nodded. "All right. I'm still a little squeamish about it, but if it might help others in the future ... yes, go ahead."

  "Do you have equipment to do that?" Loraina asked. "I mean, to tape both sides of a phone conversation?"

  "Yes." He leaned toward his leather bag. "If it works, that is."

  "Tell you what. I have a speaker phone in my study, and it has a mute button. That way, you can record both sides of the conversation with your little recorder. Much easier, don't you think?"

  Bent grinned. "You bet."

  They agreed that Loraina would make the call and Bent told her to be sure to ask the name of the officer she spoke with — the full name — and to ask him to repeat it if it didn't sound clear to her, to spell it if necessary.

  Bent went into Ethan's study, waited for Loraina to say "Okay" from the living room, then started the recorder, turned on the speaker phone, and hit the mute button.

  A man answered: "Vallejo Police Department."

  "Yes, my name is Loraina Walker. My son Samuel disappeared two months ago. I'd like to speak with someone who can update me on the progress of his case, please?"

  "Hello, Mrs. Walker, this is Sergeant Douglas. How are you?"

  "Well, our son's not back yet, so I suppose I could be better."

  "Yes, well, I assure you we're doing everything possible to find your son, Mrs. Walker."

  "Would it be too much trouble to tell me what that might be?"

  "We're exploring every possible avenue, Mrs. Walker."

  "But what does that mean?"

  "It means that we're doing everything that can be done."

  "Well, I'm not sure what that means."

  "It would take a lot of time to go over it, Mrs. Walker, and I really don't have the time right now."

  "What about if I came into the station? Could someone explain to me what you're doing then?"

  Good, good, Bent thought.

  "Mrs. Walker, at the moment, we are doing everything we possibly can to find your son. If there had been any developments, we would've called you."

  "You know, I may stop in someday really soon, find out exactly what it is you are doing."

  Another long pause, then: "I'm sorry, Mrs. Walker, but I have another call. I have to go now. I assure you that if we come up with anything, we'll call you immediately. Thank you for calling. Good-bye."

  Before Loraina could say good-bye as well, Douglas hung up. Bent switched off the recorder. In the living room, Bent said, "Perfect, perfect."

  "Why is it perfect?" Ethan asked. He had a very sad and angry look on his face.

  "Because ... well, I'm not sure why yet. But I knew there was something wrong with that smug son of a — I mean, that sergeant. I, uh, I'm sorry for my enthusiasm," he said quietly. "I know it doesn't do you any good right now. But there's a small chance that it might get something done."

  Ethan patted his shoulder and said, "If you say so, Bent, if you say so."

  "I really have to be going now. I have to — " He stopped and turned to Ethan. "Oh, by the way, do you have a map of the Bay Area?"

  "The whole Bay Area?"

  "Well, yeah."

  "I don't think they make one. But I've got a couple you might be able to tape together."

  "Perfect. Do you mind if I borrow them?"

  "Not at all. You can have them, if you like."

  Ethan got the maps and Bent stuffed them into his bag, then thanked them and said they'd hear from him tomorrow.

  Once in his car again, he headed back to Coil's, because he knew he was going to need help to do what he wanted to do ...

  2

  The doorman at Coll's Pacific Heights building smiled and nodded as Bent went in with his bag over his shoulder.

  His neck and shoulders were still aching from his long stay at the library and he rubbed them hard with one hand, wincing as he went up in the elevator alone, listening to its soft, almost lulling hum as it rose up and up.

  The doors slid open, smoothly and slowly, and Bent headed down the corridor hoping Coll was home. He was going to need some help with these maps.

  He tried the door, but it was locked. He unlocked the door, went inside, and let the bag slide off his shoulder with a groan. He bowed his back and stretched his arms outward with a long sigh, then kicked the door closed and slipped out of his coat. When he tossed his coat onto the sofa, he froze with his arm in the air as he stared, openmouthed, at the center of the tan carpet.

  There was a dark splash of something.

  It was something that looked very familiar ...

  ... something that made Bent's breath catch in his throat like a clump of thorns as he stepped forward, stumbled, then leaned down and slapped both hands flat on the coffee table as his eyes widened slowly, staring at that splotch in the center of the carpet ...

  ... at the other smaller splotches that led away from it toward the hallway ...

  ... at the smear on the wall at the corner, just where the hallway began ...

  Something began to happen to him. Sweat covered his forehead immediately and quickly broke out all over his face.
His arms, elbows, and shoulders, his legs and knees and ankles, all melded into solid iron bars that would not bend and were too heavy to move. And his eyes followed that reddish-brown trail until it disappeared around the corner and into the hallway.

  The walls around him moved inward slowly, making the apartment smaller ...

  ... and the colors he saw in his peripheral vision lightened ...

  ... just like the New York apartment he had shared with Cami ...

  "Cami?" he called, softly at first, his voice breaking, sounding as if he might gag. "Cah-Cah-Cami?"

  He forced his limbs to move, fought against their stiffness and heaviness, lifted himself to his feet, and staggered forward, knocking his shin on the corner of the coffee table and almost falling directly on the splotch, which made him cry out as he fought to regain his balance and slammed into the shelves of books on the wall, knocking a few small knickknacks to the floor. He hooked his elbows on the shelf and pulled himself up straight, still staring at the splotch. Back still pressed to the shelves, he walked sideways, then turned to face the smear on the wall at the entrance of the hallway.

  Bent stepped over one of the smaller spots on the carpet and started unsteadily down the hall. Every few feet, there was a splotchy smear on the wall, and splashes and speckles of blood were scattered all over the carpet.

  His stomach was beginning to move inside him as he followed the grisly trail and neared the bedroom —

  — our bedroom where we sleep and make love and —

  — which was where the bloodstains stopped.

  Coll's bedroom, Bent thought suddenly. Coll's ... not ours ... not ours ... it's Coll's bedroom ...

  "Coll?" Bent croaked, suddenly coming back to the present and picking up his pace as his joints limbered up, and without stepping on any of the spots, he jog-staggered the rest of the way down the hall and went into the bedroom. Blood was everywhere.

  Coll was lying on the bed, his back leaning against the headboard.