Shackled

by Ray Garton

  Borgnine was at his feet.

  Bent began to mutter first, then babble loudly: "Oh my god oh god oh dear Jesus oh shit oh please god oh — "

  "Shtop it!" Coll shouted slurringly. "Juss siddown and shuttuh fuck up."

  Bent leaned against the doorjamb, eyes bulging as his chest rose and fell rapidly with each breath. Then, as if his vision had suddenly cleared, he saw what was before him.

  Blood was spattered all over the bedroom.

  Borgnine lay at the foot of the bed on his back with his legs — and body — spread. He had been sliced open down the middle. Each side of his head was swollen where it apparently had been battered — On the hallway walls on the way here? Bent wondered — mouth wide, bloody eyes swollen shut, and long, pink tongue hanging from the corner of the mouth.

  Directly across from Bent, something was stuck to the wall. It was something small and globular and very dark red; beneath it, long trails of blood had dried on the wall after running all the way to the floor, where a clotty puddle had formed on the carpet. Bent squinted at the object on the wall, craning his head forward.

  Borgnine's small, black-red heart had been nailed to the wall.

  The room was filled with the harsh, coppery smell of old, dirty pennies: blood.

  Bent moved his hand over his mouth several times as his breath rattled in his throat. He was afraid he might throw up soon. He bowed his head for a while to take some long, slow, deep breaths, then he looked at Coll.

  He held a pint bottle of rum to his chest. There wasn't much rum left in it. His face was pale as he stared at Bent with heavy lidded eyes.

  "Coll," Bent whispered, staggering to the bed. He leaned heavily against the nightstand, then went to his knees, deciding that standing wouldn't be a very good idea for a while. "Coll, what ... what happened, for god's sake. What happened!''

  "Wellll, tell ya th'truth, I think mebbe you shtumbled 'cross somethin', m'friend. I think you pished off a few folk, y'know what I mean? Huh?"

  "How long ago did this happen?"

  "I dunno."

  "How long ago did you find it?"

  Coll's eyebrows shot up. "Oohhh, an hour, mebbe. Longer. I dunno."

  "Did you call the police?"

  "Why?"

  "Because obviously someone broke in here!"

  "Where? Show me. I couldn' find it. Nothin'!"

  "What about the doorman?"

  "Oh, no, he liked Borgie."

  "No, no I meant — " Bent sighed. "Where the fuck did you get the booze!"

  "My kisshen. I keep it there, y'know? Like the guy quits cigarettes an' leaves a pack in his glove compar'ment? Just so isss there, even though he dunt smoke 'em? Know what I mean?"

  "Yeah." Bent reached over and put a hand on Coll's arm, squeezed. "Yeah, I know what you mean."

  Coll looked at Borgnine's sliced-open corpse at the foot of the bed with bleary eyes. "He was th'bess frien' I had for, for ... years. Years, y'know? Even when I was with ... with whasser-name ... Borgie was ... he was shtill m'best frien'. Never c'mplained er tried tuh an'lyse me, y'know, he juss ... he was juss there, n'matter what."

  Bent squeezed his arm hard and shook him. "Listen to me, Coll, okay? Just listen to me. We need to call the police, okay? I mean, we're really gonna have to. And you're gonna have to sober up because they're gonna want to ask you questions and it isn't gonna look good for you to be drunk on your ass, now give me that bottle and come out into the living room with me. I'll make you some coffee." Bent stood, pulling Coll toward him. "C'mon, put the bottle — here, just give it to me." Bent took it from him and put it on the nightstand, then pulled on Coll until he was slouching on the edge of the bed. "C'mon, okay, just come with me and I'll fix you some coffee."

  Coll began to make explosive hissing sounds and his shoulders hitched as his head dropped heavily. He was sobbing quietly. Crying.

  Bent sat beside him, put an arm around him, and said, "I know, Coll, this ... this is ... I don't even know what to call it. I just know we have to call the police. Really. This is a really sick thing and we have to call the police. Come with me. You don't even have to look at anything in the hallway. You can close your eyes if you want and I'll lead you down the hall and into the kitchen. You can sit at the table and I'll fix you some coffee. We'll turn on the radio and maybe you can find that disgustingly fat, balding, right-wing talk-show host somewhere on the dial, that'll piss you off and take your mind off things. Okay? Come on. Please."

  After a while, Coll stopped crying. Before lifting his head, he wiped his eyes, then turned to Bent. His eyes were red and puffy and his face was still wet with tears. "Yeah," he croaked. "Okay, okay. Let's go ...”

  3

  Two plainclothes policemen came. One was Detective Campbell, a squat man in his early thirties who walked very stiffly, as if his spine were made of steel. His eyes were narrowed suspiciously when he came inside. In fact, he behaved as if he were one of those stiff, starchy cops in that old TV show Dragnet.

  The other was Detective Roberts, a taller, older man — about fifty or so — with a belly that pushed at the buttons of his white shift, who seemed much more relaxed and comfortable. His hair was reddish-gray and he had a faint scar just beneath his left eye on his high cheekbone. His lips were thin and his teeth were crooked and snaggled. His jaw was big and his chin jutted. He was the friendliest of the two, with a big face and a smile to match, and the one who did most of the talking. He sucked Werther's butter-toffee hard candies the whole time he was in Coll's apartment, one after another, and the syrupy aroma hovered around his face whenever he spoke.

  Once the two officers had looked around the apartment, Roberts sat at the kitchen table with Bent and Coll while Campbell stood behind his senior partner, thumbs hooked under his belt and face stem.

  Roberts flipped open a notebook and sighed as he punched the end of his pen with his thumb. "Well, I sure am sorry about all this, however it happened. Of course, I'll have to ask you some questions. Now ... the dog belonged to you?" he asked, nodding toward Coll.

  Coll nodded.

  Scribbling in his pad, Roberts asked, "Do you have any idea who might have done this?"

  "No. No idea."

  "I'm sure you've noticed there was no sign of breaking and entering."

  Coll and Bent both nodded.

  "Does anyone besides you have a key?"

  "Only Bent," Coll said with a nod.

  "And you said you were working all day?" Roberts asked Bent.

  "That's right. I was at the library here in the city this morning, then in Vallejo for a while, then I came back here and found this."

  Back to Coll: "And you're absolutely certain that no one else has a key."

  "No."

  "Wait," Bent said quietly, turning to Coll suddenly. "What about Deanna?"

  Coll's eyebrows lifted very slowly as he stared at Bent, then turned to Officer Roberts. "Um, yes, that's right, someone does have a key. My ex-girlfriend. She still has her copy."

  "And what's her name?" Roberts asked as he crunched on the sliver-thin remainder of his candy.

  "Deanna Brooks. Dr. Deanna Brooks."

  "Sounds familiar."

  "She's been on television a lot. She's a child psychiatrist and she's written a lot of books. Has a radio show five days a week."

  "I see. Do you know how to contact her?"

  "Well ... she's moving, but I know her number. I can give it a try."

  "Would you mind?"

  Coll shook his head slowly and stood even slower. He made his way to the kitchen wall phone very, very carefully.

  Officer Roberts said, "If you don't mind my asking, have you been drinking?"

  Coll took the receiver from its hook and said, "Yes. I have." Then he punched in her number.

  "Hm," Officer Roberts said, jotting something in his notebook.

  Bent reached across the table and put a hand on his wrist. "Look, he's an alcoholic, okay? In fact, we're both alcoholics. We've been giving each other .
.. well, you know, sort of moral support for years. When he came home and found his dog ... like that ... he got drunk. First time in a lot of years."

  Officer Campbell asked, "You mean he took the trouble to go out and buy a bottle and — "

  "No, no. He kept a pint buried somewhere here in the kitchen. For all these years. That's how some people do it. There's always a bottle there, but they don't touch it. Sometimes, it makes it ... well, I guess it makes it somehow easier. Makes them more secure, even though they don't drink anymore, to know that the bottle's there. Does that make sense, officer?"

  Officer Roberts chuckled. "Yes, yes, it makes a lot of sense. You know, I've kept a pack of Camels in my bedside drawer for almost ... well, I guess it's been eleven years now. I put 'em there when I stopped smoking, and there they've stayed. They've still got the cellophane wrapping on them." He gave Bent a small smile of understanding as he removed the half roll of Werther's from his coat pocket, removed one of the candies and unwrapped it, then popped it into his mouth. "When I stopped smoking, I picked up these things," he said, dropping the roll back into his pocket. He smiled and patted his round, heavy belly as he added, "And this thing."

  Bent smiled back, knowing the man wasn't just jerking his chain.

  "So he's a drunk," Officer Campbell said, folding his arms over his very thick chest. "How do we know he didn't do it himself?"

  Still smiling, Roberts turned around in his chair very slowly, looking up at his younger partner, and said quietly, "Will you shut the fuck up."

  Coll hung up the phone and started back toward the table. "The number's been disconnected," he said. "I guess she's already moved."

  "Do you know where she's moved to?" Roberts asked.

  "Los Angeles."

  "Oh, really? Set up a practice there, has she?"

  "Far as I know. Plus, she's closer to the talk-show studios."

  Roberts chuckled. "My last partner transferred to L.A. God knows why, what with all the problems they have in that town. Yeah" — he glanced over his shoulder at Campbell with narrow eyes — "I miss him." He scribbled in his pad for a moment. "Okay, now there's a question I have to ask you, even though it may sound insulting," he said, turning to Coll. The candy clicked against his teeth gently. "Are you or have you been involved in any kind of Satanic cult? Have you been involved in black magic or any kind of ritualistic cult at all? Anything like that?"

  Bent and Coll exchanged a long look, then Coll turned to Roberts. "No. Never."

  Robert's eyes shifted from Coll to Bent, back and forth, back and forth. "That was quite a look, gentlemen. Do you know something I don't? Is there something you'd like to tell me?"

  Once again, they exchanged a glance.

  "No, really," Coll said. "Not at all."

  Roberts smiled and nodded. "Okay, that's fine." He slapped his notebook shut as his eyes darted back and forth between them. "If you say so. The reason I ask is that this sort of thing — the killing of a pet, sticking the heart to the wall, things like that — is usually meant as a warning. By those people, I mean. You know, people who are involved in Satanism, stuff like that. It's usually their way of saying ... well, back off. You follow me?" He watched Bent and Coll silently, eyes darting from one to the other, until they nodded. "Oh, well, anyway." He backed his chair away from the table and stood, smiling. "The most I can do is file a cruelty to animals report. I'll fill in all the details, I assure you. The only problem is that there's no sign of entry. However, I'd like to follow up on the fact that your ex-girlfriend has a key to this apartment. Come to think of it — " He flipped the pad open again and poised his pen. " — did the two of you part amicably, or was it ... oh, I guess maybe hostile would be a good word?"

  Coll bowed his head a moment, took a deep breath, then looked up at the officer and said, "We did not part amicably. And, yes, there was, um, hostility."

  Roberts nodded as he scribbled in his pad. "Okay, then, she is definitely going to hear from us. But if we find her and talk to her ... are you willing to press charges if she's the one?"

  Coll wiped a hand over his mouth, thought a moment, then nodded. "Yes. Yes, absolutely. I'm more than willing to press charges." He muttered, "I'd like to press 'em right up her — "

  "That's fine, then." Roberts slapped the pad shut and returned it and the pen to his pocket. "I'm terribly sorry about what's happened to you, Mr. Collaway. I have a pet, too. I know how I would feel under these unpleasant circumstances. So I know how you must feel. Please accept my condolences." He fished a card from his inside coat pocket. "Here's my card. Detective Andy Roberts. Please call if you need anything or something comes up. Uh, I'll talk to the doorman, of course. There's a good chance he saw something. And if he didn't, maybe someone else in the lobby did." He started toward the door and his partner followed. "You don't have to show us out. Just stay where you are. And you take good care of yourself, okay?"

  4

  "Why didn't you tell him?" Bent asked at the table. "I was leaving it up to you to tell him. Why didn't you?"

  "You wanna be dragged into it? You want some big police investigation?"

  "But you know this is because of my story, you know it! You said so. You said I'd come across something and wish I hadn't, and now this is the result, right?"

  "Yes, yes, I remember. But do you really want what would come if I told these cops about what you were doing? They'd be on your ass ... hell, you'd be a suspect before they were through with you."

  "But you really ... I mean ... you think this is because I've stumbled onto something with this story, don't you?"

  "You heard the officer. He asked if I was involved in Satanism. They're not stupid. They know this is part of it. They know this is a warning. That's exactly what it is."

  "Well, if you think it's got something to do with that, why did you say you'd press charges against Deanna?"

  "Because she's the only one with a key."

  "So? You think she has something to do with this?"

  "I said ... she's the only one ... who has a key. That doesn't mean she couldn't give it to someone else. And it doesn't mean that it couldn't be taken from her."

  Bent could not argue. "But ... how would they know? I haven't done anything yet. I've just been looking around."

  "Maybe that's all it takes. Maybe you've already talked to one of them and don't even know it."

  Bent started to speak, then said nothing. The possibility was too chilling, and he didn't want to pursue it ...

  5

  After Coll passed out on the sofa, Bent went about the business of cleaning up.

  It was ugly.

  First of all, he had to get rid of Borgnine and the heart on the wall.

  He got a big green Glad bag from the kitchen, covered his hands with Saran Wrap because he couldn't find any gloves, and went, quite reluctantly, to the bedroom, avoiding the bloodstains all the way. He stared at the split-open carcass for a while, swallowing the lump in his throat. Then he moved forward, opened the bag, and placed it at the very edge of the foot of the bed, then, with his Saran Wrap-covered hand, rolled the dead dog into it with a small, quiet groan.

  The heart had been stuck to the wall with a black push pin. Bent stared at it a moment, lips pressed together hard, then his eyes followed the dry strings of blood that clung to the wall all the way down to the puddle caked into the carpet.

  He gulped, then began to cough in sickened disgust and fell backward against the bi-fold closet door, which half opened beneath his weight, making him slip and drop to the floor on his behind. As he clambered to his feet, the closet door opened all the way and when, once standing, he turned to close it, he happened to look up and see all the pictures on the top shelf.

  They were arranged in no order but, even so, they were all propped up and visible in their frames, which were gold and black and silver and wood, large and small and in between. And every single picture on the top shelf of the closet was of Deanna Brooks.

  She looked down at Bent with eve
ry imaginable expression on her face: happy, laughing, pouty, stern, obviously angry, sexy, indifferent.

  As he stared up at the pictures, Bent remembered what Coll had said earlier about Deanna's key to the apartment.

  ... she's the only one ... who has a key. That doesn't mean she couldn't give it to someone else. And it doesn't mean that it couldn't be taken from her ...

  But to whom would she give that key? And why? And how could it be taken from her unless all of her keys were taken? Surely she kept the key to Coll's apartment on the ring with the rest of her keys; after all, it was one she'd used often.

  Again and again, he kept thinking that other than Bent and Coll himself, Deanna was the only person who had a key to the apartment.

  Staring at the pictures, Bent felt something very much like heartburn. He wasn't sure if it was from what he was doing ... or what he was thinking.

  Trying to empty his mind of everything, he removed the heart from the wall, dropped it into the Glad bag, tied the bag up, and disposed of it in a bin downstairs, then went about the business of cleaning the stains from the carpet with cold water and soap. He did not feel the burning of the muscles in his back and shoulders as he'd felt it in the library; he wasn't thinking now, just doing. He scrubbed the walls, too, in the living room, the hallway, and the bedroom ... where the closet door was still open.

  Bent stopped to look up at those pictures, at her face. He remembered what Coll had said.

  When he was finally done, he sat on the edge of the bed and peeled the Saran Wrap from his hands. Then he spotted the bottle. There was still a little left in there. Just enough to warm his stomach and dull his mind a bit.

  The fingers of his right hand rubbed together in his lap with a tiny hissing sound, then he reached for the bottle ... and froze.

  "Uh-uh," he said quietly. "No, no, no. Work. There's work to do. Yeah. Work to do."

  He stood, wadded the plastic between his hands, and began to clean up after himself ...

  6