Shackled

by Ray Garton

  Bent had been working on the maps for well over an hour when Coll came into the office, walking very slowly and quietly, and seated himself on the love seat across from the desk, facing Bent's back. When Coll finally spoke, he startled Bent, who spun around in the chair with a gasp.

  "What the hell have you done to my desk?" Coll asked thickly.

  "Oh, jeez, you scared the shit outta me!"

  "Well, maybe you deserve it. What'd you do to my desk?"

  "Oh, yeah. That. I'm sorry. I was hoping you'd be able to help me with this, but, um, you weren't up to it. So I very carefully cleared off your desk. I swear I didn't mess anything up."

  "Mm. So what's this map stuff?" He stood, crossed the room, and leaned on the edge of the desk, looking over Bent's shoulder.

  Bent told him about the information he'd gathered at the library that day, and that he was going down the very long list of dates and places and marking the location — with a felt-tip pen dot — of each child kidnapping in the Bay Area during the last year.

  "Why a year?" Coll asked.

  "I don't know. It was a random decision. Besides, I'm only one person. You know how long it took me to get these! And these are only the ones reported in the paper. Who knows how many more are out there?"

  "Why are you doing this?"

  "I'm, uh, I'm not sure."

  "You're not sure!"

  Bent pushed his chair away from the desk, turned, and looked up at Coll. "You know, since I started this, I kept getting the feeling there was something going on here, that something was happening just beneath the surface that I couldn't see. Know what I mean, just a ... like a gut feeling? And now after what happened here today ... Coll, I'm on to something. I know I'm supposed to be writing these, pieces that are hopeful and uplifting, but ... I have obviously stepped into a bucket of some weird shit! Someone is very unhappy with me and, unfortunately, you've had to pay for it. And I'm sorry. Very, very sorry. If you want, I won't come back here anymore. You don't have to be involved. I won't ask for your help anymore, you can be completely out of it if you want. I won't even call you on the phone, you'll be completely uninvolved and I'll understand."

  "Are you out of your mind? Whoever did this today ... I wanna find them. And I wanna hurt them. Bad. I'll do anything you want. I'm dying to help you now."

  There was a look in Coll's eyes, a set to his jaw, that Bent had never seen before ... and it frightened him just a little.

  "All right, Coll, you can help me. Look, I don't know all these Bay Area towns. I have to search forever to find them. So how about if I read the list to you, and you put a little dot over each town, okay?"

  "No problem."

  They changed places; Coll sat in the chair and Bent stood with the papers in his hand. Coll picked up the felt-tip pen and Bent began to read the towns slowly, waiting a moment after each one while Coll scanned the map and made the dot in the proper place.

  They went on that way for a long time.

  After a while, Coll chuckled.

  "What's funny?" Bent asked.

  "Oh, nothing, nothing, it's ... probably the booze. Gimme the next one."

  Bent did, and they went on and on for a long time ...

  ... until Coll began to laugh. He laughed hard, and as he laughed, he said through his laughter, "Ho-ho-holy shih-hih-hih-hit! Ho-ho-holy fucking shih-hih-hih-hit!" But there was no humor in his laughter; it was cold and frightening, like the laughter of a mad scientist in an old horror movie.

  It was so startling that Bent almost dropped the papers he held in his hands. He looked down at Coll with wide eyes and a frown and said, "What? What the hell's wrong with you?"

  Still laughing, his speech still a bit slurred by his drunkenness, Coll said, "You, you sumbitch, that's what!" He threw back his head and laughed, stabbing a finger at the map.

  Bent leaned forward and looked at it; he saw nothing more than a mass of dots.

  He's still drunk, Bent thought. He doesn't know what he's talking about ... or laughing about.

  Bent put the papers on the corner of the desk and put an arm around Coll.

  "Hey, you know, I can handle this myself," he said. "Why don't you go to bed, huh? You know, your bedroom's clean now. Cleaner than it was before, as a matter of fact. I cleaned up the whole place and ... and ...”

  Coll's laughter dissolved into coughing and he leaned forward, putting a fist to his mouth. At the same time, he began to shake his head.

  "No, no," he said. "It's not what you think. I'm still woozy, but I'm not drunk. Look. Just look at the map. What do you see?"

  Bent looked, frowning, squinting, then said, "A bunch of dots."

  "Look closer. Closer. Look for a while. You'll see. Oh, yeah, I think you'll see."

  Bent looked at the dots ... looked and looked ... and then he saw it. It sort of eased up off the map at him slowly at first, then reached out and grabbed him by the throat.

  "Oh, my god," Bent whispered. "An upside-down cross."

  "It's not finished yet. Maybe that means they've still got more kids to get."

  "What ... what do I ... I don't know what to ...”

  "You should tell the Walker family. Let them know."

  "What about the police? I should tell the police!"

  Coll threw back his head again and laughed a long, wheezy laugh, then said, "You ... you thuh-think they're gonna believe you? You're a reporter for the fuckin' Global Inquisitor, for crying out loud!"

  "But how can they ignore it? How? I mean, I — I — I've got, I've got proof, proof. And we can tell where the next kidnapping will take place! And the next and the next until the cross is finished!"

  Coll turned the chair toward him. "If you were from the Times, you'd have proof. From the Inquisitor, you've invented proof." Bent thought a moment. "Roberts would believe it."

  "Who?"

  "The cop who was here tonight! The older guy!"

  "Oh, boy," Coll sighed, rubbing his forehead. "Listen to you. I'm a fairly respected journalist. My work is taken seriously. By the media. As far as the cops are concerned, I'm a hack. A fraud. A ... a dork. They don't like people like me who exploit crimes and the misery of others for the sake of a bestseller. And they especially don't like people like you. It's gonna be a big mistake for you to turn to the cops. You need to take what you've got and prove that they're dorks! Because they won't even begin to swallow this shit! I mean, this — " He waved his hand over the map. " — this is your torch, my friend. You gotta carry it. And I'll help you. I mean, hey, I haven't been doing this true crime stuff for nothing all these years, right? I've got some connections. If you need 'em, we'll use 'em."

  Bent stared at him for a while, arms loose at his sides, jaw slack. "Are you serious? I mean ... you really think I shouldn't, you know, go to the police?"

  "Not unless you want guys with badges calling you names you've never heard before. Besides, they're not gonna like the idea of you walking on their ground, messing in their business. They'd be on you like flies on shit and they'd slide you out of town on the edge of a very big, long razor blade."

  Bent turned to the map again and looked at the unfinished upside-down cross among the mass of dots.

  "This is real," he said.

  Coll looked up at Bent. His smile was gone and his face was very long and absolutely serious. "Do you think they would have killed my dog if it wasn't?"

  "No. No, I don't." Bent thought for a long time, staring silently at the map, then squatted down beside Coll. "Tell me something. How much do you, um, know about, uh ... about Deanna's ... personal beliefs?"

  Coll closed his eyes. He leaned forward, put both elbows on the desk, and pressed his face into his hands.

  "I know what you're saying," he said quietly into his palms. "I-I ... know what you're saying and I've been thinking the same fucking thing myself. I mean, my god, I've been thinking the same thing. She was the only one with a key besides us. And ... no, I don't know anything about her personal beliefs. Other than the fact
that she thought everybody needed therapy."

  Bent put an arm around his shoulders. "You think she's got something to do with it?"

  "All I'm saying is ... well, I mean, it's a possibility. That's all."

  "Well, then." Bent stood. "I guess we have a lot of work to do, don't we?"

  "Yeah. Yeah, I guess we do."

  "You said you've got connections?" Bent asked. "Do you have any connections who can get us on one of those computer bulletin boards you were telling me about?"

  "Yeah," Coll said, nodding slowly, "I think I might ...”

  7

  Lewis Garner had been paralyzed from the waist down in a car accident that had killed both his parents when he was eleven years old. That had been twenty-two years ago.

  Now he lived in a North Beach apartment that was larger inside than it appeared. A great portion of it was taken up by shelves and stacks and boxes and bags of books and videotapes. They were everywhere, scattered this way and that, as if the apartment had been bombed. The shelves and furniture were very dusty and cobwebs clung to the walls and ceiling in every comer, cobwebs so old that even the spiders had moved on to better digs.

  As Garner opened the door and rolled back his wheelchair to let Bent and Coll into his apartment, Bent's eyes widened slightly as he looked around, his head moving back and forth slowly. Coll introduced the two of them and Bent smiled as he shook Garner's hand, sliding the bag off his shoulder and setting it aside.

  Garner's dark hair was wiry, went in every direction and sparkled with bits of silver. The thick lenses of his glasses — with crookedly bent silver-wire frames — were speckled with water spots and smeared fingerprints. His large belly rose up in his middle and spilled a ways into his lap. He wore a light blue, short-sleeved shirt and black jeans. His arms — which seemed out of place on his body because they looked so muscular — moved smoothly as he operated the wheels of his chair, turning it around and leading them into the apartment.

  "Come in, gentlemen," he said jovially. "I've got tea, I've got coffee, and there's a bunch of sodas in the fridge, take your pick. If you're hungry, there are croissants on the kitchen counter, chips on the kitchen table, and lots of sandwiches in the fridge."

  They were hungry. They'd slept late after a long, miserable night and they'd had no breakfast — not even coffee — so they took Garner up on his invitation. Coll led Bent to the kitchen where they poured themselves cups of coffee and each took a plastic-wrapped sandwich from the refrigerator. Then they returned to what would, under different circumstances, be the living room.

  Under these circumstances, it was occupied by a love seat, a ratty sofa and two chairs, a couple of end tables with lamps on them, two desks, and countless books and videotapes.

  Coll seated himself on the love seat and unwrapped his sandwich while Bent continued to stand, looking all around him at the incredible collection of books, old and new, paperback and hardcover, at all the videotapes and the countless audio cassettes ...

  "Tell him, Coll," Garner said with a smirk, positioned in the middle of the room with his hands folded over his belly.

  Already chewing on a bite of his sandwich, Coll said, "Oh, yeah, yeah. Look, Bent, I know this place — " He stopped and looked at his sandwich, still chewing, then waved it at Garner. "Hey, this is really good," he said.

  Garner smiled. "Thank you. That must be the roast beef. They're the best because I add the horseradish and just a touch of honey mustard," he said, waving a hand with thumb and forefinger touching, the other three fingers held out gracefully.

  Coll swallowed his food and turned to Bent. "Okay, I know this place looks a mess — "

  "And it really is, when you come right down to it," Garner said.

  " — but this guy knows where to find every single book in here. Not only every book, but every subject, every incident. Every person. Anything you want, he can find it. In seconds. If there's a better researcher anywhere, I'd like to meet him. Or her. That's why I come to him for whatever I need. This guy has everything imaginable at his fingertips. I couldn't have written a single book without him."

  With a grin, Garner nodded and said, "Thank you." Then he turned to Bent and motioned toward the chair. "Please, have a seat. Enjoy your sandwich and coffee. By the way, the coffee is vanilla-nut. Gourmet coffee. I grind the beans myself. That's the only way I'll drink it. None of that canned 'mountain grown' crap for me."

  Bent sipped his coffee. "I-it's very good." He set the mug and sandwich on the dust-layered lamp table beside the chair, then got his bag from beside the front door and sat in the chair, saying, "So, where do you get all these books?"

  "Friends. I know people at bookstores all over town. And in Berkeley, which is a great book town, by the way. I need something I don't have, I call them and they either send it to me or bring it to me. Same with the videotapes, I get them from whoever has what I need. 60 Minutes, 20/20, Geraldo, or Donahue, sometimes even the tabloid shows like A Current Affair or Inside Edition. All you need is a phone, really. You can get anything you want, as long as somebody's paying for you to do it and for the time it takes." He turned to Coll, put his elbows on the armrests of his wheelchair, and folded his hands beneath his fleshy double chin. "Speaking of which, what do you want? On the phone you said you couldn't explain until you got here, but that it was important. Okay, you're here now. What is it?"

  Coll and Bent exchanged a glance, then began. They told him everything, from Bent's initial assignment to the grisly killing of Borgnine the night before. Garner stared at them as they spoke, looking from one to the other, his mouth slowly opening wider and wider as they went on. Finally, he turned to Coll.

  "Oh, no. Borgnine? Jeez, I'm sorry, man. That's ... that's awful. Jeez, I'm really sorry."

  "Thanks, Garner. But that's not what we're here to talk about. We're here to talk about upside-down crosses and, um, well ... I guess, Satanists." He glanced uncertainly at Bent.

  "Yeah. I'm afraid so. It may sound silly, but — "

  "It's obvious," Garner said very quietly. He sat frozen in his wheelchair. He did not move a muscle ... except for his eyes, which darted back and forth between the two of them as the comers of his mouth turned slowly downward. As his eyes continued to go back and forth between Bent and Coll, he said, very, very quietly, "Yeah, it's ... it's very obvious what you're after. And unfortunately, um ... it's very obvious what's ... what's after you."

  "What, uh ...” Coll chuckled coldly. "C'mon, Lewis, what does that mean? What're you saying here, that we've, that we've, uh ...” With his sandwich in one hand, Coll spread his arms, puzzled.

  "You've pissed somebody off, is what I mean. I'm not quite sure who yet, and I'm not quite sure how because you've only given me your story in a nutshell, but even so, you've obviously pissed these guys off." His mouth suddenly sounded a little dry.

  "These guys?" Bent asked through a mouthful of his sandwich. "What do you mean by ... these guys?"

  "Satanists. Um, look, I'll show you. Let's see, let's seeee ...”

  Garner spun his chair around, took a sharp, graceful curve around one of the desks, and went to a bookcase, then ran his forefinger along the spines of the books until he found the one he wanted and pulled it out, tossing it onto the desk. He went to a stack of books piled against the wall, found his target, and, with one hand, slipped it smoothly out of the stack with the agility of a sleight-of-hand magician. He tossed it on the desk, too. Then he went to a fat cardboard box, leaned over the side of his wheelchair, and reached in, groped around, until he found what he wanted and removed a thick book and tossed it onto the desk with the others. Then he spun around again and went to the desk, laying the books out side by side. He picked up one of the books — a dusty old brown hardcover with warped pages — and thumbed through it quickly.

  "This is what I'm talking about," he said, running his finger down a page. "Right here in Clive Barchowski's book Satanism in Modern Society. There aren't many copies of this baby, you know, because it w
as self-published back in the late fifties. He's written others since then, but they're sure hard to come by. Anyway, it says here, "The modern Satanist — excluding, of course, the insincere dabblers who base their rituals and beliefs on nothing more than their desire for free sex and to shock others — are so deeply imbedded in the underground that they are virtually invisible. Under the unlikely circumstances that one should unintentionally stumble across them, these secret societies are unmerciful in their retribution. At best, one warning is given. After that, murders that are usually written off as accidents or unsolved homicides committed by "wanderers" or "indigents" are the most likely results.' "

  Garner raised his head and his eyes moved from Bent to Coll and back again.

  "Are we having fun yet?" he asked quietly.

  Neither of them said anything.

  "Well, come on, do you see what I'm saying?"

  "That, um, depends," Bent said quietly. "Who, exactly, is Clive Bar ... Bar ...”

  "Chowski. Clive Barchowski. Well, he was once a follower of Aleister Crowley. In fact, he was one of his friends. One of his last friends, in fact, because they knew each other in the last two ... oh, maybe three years of Crowley's life when Barchowski was just a kid in his teens. Some say they were lovers. Some even say that Barchowski sodomized Crowley's corpse. At Crowley's request. But, who knows, right? Crowley, in case you don't know, is the father ... no — no, the grandfather of modern Satanism and black magic. In fact, if you're into Satanism, if you're trying to conjure demons, or if you're into the black arts, you can't swing a dead cat without hitting some sort of reference to Crowley. And, by the way, the cat really would be dead. That's the way these people work. Anyway, Barchowski's still alive. He's really old, but he's still alive somewhere."

  Bent turned to Coll. "Um, uh ... well, uh ..." He rubbed his eyes with thumb and forefinger as he leaned his head forward, then looked at Coll again, saying, "Well, um .... uh ...”

  "Listen to me, Bent," Coll said very quietly, "he knows what he's talking about. He knows who he's talking about. He's an encyclopedia on four wheels. That's why we're here. So listen up, okay? I mean, it's not like I promised you it would be fun, or anything."