Shackled

by Ray Garton

  With Ed's eyes off the road and only two fingers of one hand on the wheel, the car swerved to the right.

  An eighteen-wheeler blared its horn as the Sundance closed in on the left fender of the cab.

  Ethan bleated like a sheep again, leaning against the door, and jerked the phone away from Ed as it continued to chirp. "No! No! I'll take care of it! You just drive! Just drive!"

  Before the phone could finish its next chirp, Ethan unfolded it and pulled out the small antenna. He put the phone to his ear and muttered, "Hello?"

  "Ethan, is that you?"

  "Uh ... is this Garner?"

  "Who'd you expect? That's my phone you got there!" Ethan relaxed a bit and managed a chuckle, smiling slightly.

  "Okay, Ethan, I want you to listen closely, because what I'm going to say is pretty wild."

  "Wild?"

  "Yes, wild. You remember that when you left here, Rob was still trying to narrow down that number?"

  "Yes, of course."

  "Well, he did. And it's a biggie. That number leads straight to the location of Rex Calisto's LA. mansion."

  "Rex who?"

  "Calisto, Rex Calisto. Don't tell me you don't know who he is. I mean, I know you're a pastor and all, but ... c'mon! The publisher of Visions magazine? The scourge of the earth according to the religious right? The Toupeed Scoundrel? I mean, surely you must have — "

  "Yes, yes, I've heard of him, Garner," Ethan sighed. "I know who he is, I'm a pastor, not a monk. I just can't believe that the number has led you to ... his mansion."

  "Well, it has. And you just might end up having to go there."

  "Why?"

  "Because there's a very good chance that where you might find the answers to a lot of our questions."

  Ethan frowned, rubbed a temple with one hand. "Okay, okay. But I certainly don't plan to just drive up and drop in. As if that would be possible."

  "It wouldn't be. That guy's got security that makes the SDI program look like a picket fence. No, you can't do that. I just wanted you to know. Somehow, you're gonna have to end up there sooner or later."

  "Fine. But first, I thought we'd go see Bent's Liberace lady in the desert. He left us the directions and I figured — "

  "Yeah, that should definitely be your first stop. So, um ... how're you getting along with the guys."

  "Well, uh, it's ... uncomfortable."

  Garner laughed. "Yeah, yeah, I know what you mean. They can be pretty intimidating, but believe me, Ethan, you're in great hands, like I said. And they're nice guys, if you give them a chance. They'll take care of you, whatever happens, I promise. That's why I sent them with you."

  "Okay. If you say so."

  "I do. Give me a call when you get there."

  "I will."

  Garner hung up without a good-bye, which somehow seemed ominous to Ethan. He pushed the antenna down and replaced the phone.

  "Everything okay?" Ed asked with a glance toward Ethan.

  "Well, to tell the truth, everything's, um ... weird."

  Ed grinned and chuckled, tightening his grip on the steering wheel, and said, "Yeah, that's the way I like it ...”

  3

  Syrupy Muzak whispered from hidden speakers and floated like a ghost through the empty waiting room.

  Shockley stepped up to the reception window and, for the third time in over a week, smiled down at Miss Daley. She looked up from her work and stared at him through her enormous, red-rimmed glasses. She pulled her chin in so the puffy flesh beneath it bulged slightly, then began to twirl her pudgy right forefinger in a kinked strand of her frizzy, bleached-blond hair. She'd done that the last two times he'd seen her, and it annoyed him.

  "I see you're back," she said.

  "Which is quite a trick, Miss Daley, considering I'm facing you." His smile became a forced grin.

  "You came here to joke?"

  "No." He cleared his throat and straightened his posture, becoming businesslike. "I came here to see Dr. Brooks."

  "Do you have an appointment?" Miss Daley asked, twirling her finger slowly and methodically in her hair.

  Shockley spread both hands over the edge of the window and leaned forward with a sigh, hanging his head wearily. Then he looked at her and said, "Why would you ask me if I have an appointment when you told me she wasn't taking any more appointments the last two times I was here?"

  Miss Daley smiled smugly. "Oh, you remember. Then why have you come back?" Without waiting for an answer, she went back to writing in the long, rectangular book open before her.

  Standing straight again, Shockley said, "Okay, just tell me this. Is Dr. Brooks in the building right now?"

  "Well, this is her office, after all," she said without looking up.

  "Let me put it this way. How might I be able to speak with Dr. Brooks in an informal way, rather than as a patient?"

  "You could call her radio show any weekday between one and three p.m., or as so many other fans do, you could write her at the address given on the show. Otherwise, I don't know how you could — "

  Shockley leaned forward, his dark hands standing out on the cream-colored sill of the reception window. His tone was firm as he asked, "Miss Daley, does Dr. Brooks even come to this office?"

  She lifted her head slowly, all pretense of friendliness gone, and glowered up at him as if he had said something lewd. "Do you see this book here? It is a large book. It is a schedule book. And it is a full book. Dr. Brooks has all of her time allotted from now until the latter part of next year. Now, you have given me no real reason for wanting to see Dr. Brooks. As far as I know, you are not a government official — city, county, state, federal, or otherwise — and you are not here in a professional capacity from any publishing or broadcasting concern. Therefore, I have no choice but to do as I have done twice before and send you away. If you would like to show me good reason for your visits here, I would be happy to take it under consideration. Otherwise, please go away and do not come back again, or I will call the police and report you as a public nuisance."

  She went back to work.

  Shockley stood there for a long moment, thinking, I'd love to show this bitch my badge ... then smack her right in the mouth with it. But Miss Daley did not look up; she behaved as if he had never come in at all.

  Shockley turned away from the window and faced the waiting room. The magazines were perfectly in order on the coffee table, water gurgled in the tropical fish tank, and the room was completely empty. He half turned to the window and said, "You know, for being so busy, Dr. Brooks sure does have a bare waiting room." He took a step, then turned back again. "And that telephone of yours is awful quiet, too."

  She looked up then. "Dr. Brooks is, as I said, very busy, but she is also very punctual and does not wish to require her patients to wait around to see her. Have a good day." Then, she went back to work.

  When Shockley stepped out of the elevator into the ground-floor lobby of the building, he stopped, ran a hand through his rusty hair, and sighed as he looked around. He was an inch and a half under six feet tall and wore a dark gray suitcoat over a long-sleeved white cotton shirt, light gray pants, and black leather sneakers.

  Something was rotten in Beverly Hills. In his three visits to her office, Dr. Brooks had had no patients sitting in the waiting room, thumbing through magazines or muttering to one another as in every other therapist's office in Beverly Hills or Los Angeles ... or anywhere else, for that matter. The telephones next to Miss Daley never once rang quietly, like the telephones in therapists' offices everywhere else, which was constantly. During his marriage of three years to a woman who had turned out to be an alcoholic agoraphobic, Shockley had gone, alone and with his wife, to a number of different therapists in Los Angeles — it was a trial-and-error sort of thing — and every one of them had had full waiting rooms and telephones that constantly buzzed, dinged, or chirped behind the reception window.

  Dr. Brooks's office, however, was dead silent, except for the sickly purring of that muted Mu
zak playing from invisible speakers.

  Shockley stuffed his hands into the loose pockets of his pants and looked around until he spotted a uniformed security guard. He was in his late fifties, maybe early sixties, with the usual belly hanging over his belt and the tufts of gray hair poking out from beneath his shiny-billed cap. His face was ruddy and a bit puffy, perhaps from alcohol. His movements, demeanor, and appearance, everything about him said that he was ... well, it was worth a try.

  Shockley walked over to him, putting a little bounce in his step as he neared the older man. When he was a few feet away, he smiled and held out his hand. "Hiya. Leonard Shockley."

  The guard shook his hand, face remaining expressionless and cold. "Hello, Mr. Shockley. How can I help you?"

  When the shake stopped, Shockley put his hands on his hips, elbows poking out at each side, and asked. "Tell me something, are you a former police officer?"

  The guard looked at him curiously, giving Shockley just enough time to glance at his thin, rectangular name tag: HARRISON YARDLY.

  "Well, um, what makes you ask that, Mr. Shockley?"

  Shockley grinned, reached into the inside pocket of his suit-coat, and flopped his badge into view. "LAPD. I recognize a brother on sight, y'know?"

  Suddenly Yardly's face broke into a broad smile and he said, "Well, I'll be damned. Hell, yeah, I served thirty-eight years on the force. What can I do for you, m'friend?"

  "Well, I'll tell ya, Mr. Yardly, that's a little hard to say. I mean, you know as well as I do that I'm out of my jurisdiction, right? I mean, I'm L.A., and we're in Beverly Hills."

  "Hey, listen." Yardly moved close to him and lowered his voice to an eager whisper. "Is there somethin' I can do for ya? Huh? I mean, I understand the jurisdiction stuff ... but I also understand the work, y'know? Sometimes we just gotta do what we gotta do, right?"

  "I was hoping you'd say that, Mr. Yardly."

  "Aw, hell, call me Harry."

  "Okay, Harry, here's what I need to know. There's a woman by the name of Dr. Brooks who has an office in this building. Sixth floor. She's a very popular child psychiatrist who — "

  "Oh, yeah, I know who she is. My wife listens to her radio show every day. 'Course, our kids're grown and gone, but she listens every day, like she's gonna learn somethin' about kids she doesn't already know."

  "Okay, then, you know who I'm talking about. Tell me, have you ever seen her come into this building? Or leave it?"

  The man thought a moment, frowning. He scratched his cheek and shook his head slowly. "Never really thought about it before, but y'know, come to think of it, I haven't. And I've seen her on TV, so I'd know if I saw her. And I know she's got an office here, but it hasn't been open long. No, I can't say as I've seen her in this building at all."

  "Is there maybe a rear entrance she could've come through so you might've missed her?"

  "Oh, sure, lotsa entrances to this building for the people who have offices here. But, no, I haven't seen her."

  Shockley thought for a moment, chewing his lower lip as he looked around him. He stuffed the fingers of each hand into his back pocket and said, "Okay, here's my problem. I've gotta find Dr. Brooks coming into or going out of this building. You understand? I need to know. It's important to me."

  Yardly smiled again and stiffened his back. " 'Course I understand. Hey, some of the weirdest things come up in the line of duty, right?"

  Shockley smiled, reached out, and slapped Yardly's shoulder. "That's right, Harry, they sure do. But this is just between you and me, right?"

  "No problem at all."

  "What hours you work?"

  "I just came on half an hour ago. I work the three to eleven shift. Sunday through Thursday."

  "You know any of your coworkers?"

  "Oh, sure."

  "You think they'd be willing to tell you about anything you might miss?"

  Another smile. "I think they'd be happy to, knowin' they were doin' it for the force. Any force. Most of us come from the same line of work around here, y'know. 'Course, I wouldn't mention your name to any of 'em."

  "That's my man, Harry." Shockley removed a business card and pen from his coat and wrote his home number on the back of the card. "You see her — Dr. Brooks, I mean — you give me a call. And feel free to share this with any of your friends who work here. That okay with you?"

  "That's just fine," he said, taking the card. "But tell me, uh ... what's she doin'?"

  Shockley leaned close and whispered, "Tell you the truth, Harry, I don't think she's doing anything ... if you know what I mean."

  Yardly narrowed his eyes knowingly, smiled and nodded, and said, "Yeah, I was kinda thinkin' you might say that ...”

  4

  Rex took Lacey in the middle of the afternoon ... but he did that often, now that she was "trained like a good pet," as he often said. Sometimes, he took her in the early morning ... or in the middle of the night ... sometimes even while she was sleeping. She would wake up to find her legs being pulled apart, or the cheeks of her ass being pulled hard, and she would feel him stabbing into her, in one orifice or another.

  Then, of course, came the slapping, the beating, and — worst of all — the spitting. It was usually while he was coming. He would spit into her face and call her names, his big face dripping with perspiration while the hair on top of his head remained dry and stiff. He would smile as he did it, a crooked, toothy smile, lips quivering as his eyes narrowed to glistening slits. He would call her "whore," "slut," "big wet hole," and "cunt," and she would feel the words in her gut, feel them in her mind, like long hot needles stabbing in and out, in and out.

  Of course, when he took her from behind, she was spared having to see his face ... but there was more pain than the other way ... and always the spitting and the hateful words.

  One of the things that got her through it was thinking of his hair. It really was a toupee, although she'd never seen him with out it; she sometimes thought he might kill anyone who saw his naked head.

  On this particular afternoon, the day of the big party that would take place that night, he took her while one of the girls was plucking her eyebrows. Rex burst into the room, told the girl to get the hell out, then began ripping Lacey's clothes off. Literally ripping them. Popping buttons and tearing cloth. The dress was not expensive compared to many of the others he'd given her to wear — and it was not the dress she would be wearing when he introduced her to the press that night — but to Lacey, its worth was exorbitant and she couldn't imagine tearing it to pieces when she could get it off in just seconds. It meant nothing to Rex, however, and he ripped not only the dress, but the underwear beneath it, just to get to her flesh, to squeeze her breasts so hard she wanted to cry out, to twist her nipples like screws until tears stung her eyes.

  By the time he finished this time, Rex had turned her onto her hands and knees and changed orifices. He still spat on her and called her names when he came. She didn't know what was worse ... the pain she felt that way, or having to lie on her back and face him.

  He rolled away from her quickly when he was done and thunked to the floor. His clothes were a mess, the shirt open, the pants down around his knees; even though he always insisted that she be naked when he took her like this, he was never naked himself. In fact, it seemed to Lacey that when he did this, he only exposed the very hairiest parts of his body, with the rest left behind in its skin of expensive clothing. As if she were the only one who had to be naked ... Lacey, the "pet" ... the animal.

  He was excited. She could tell by the look on his face, by the way his hands shook slightly, by the way he had spoken. He was excited about the party that was to introduce her as Visions' new centerfold.

  He had done much the same thing when he first told her about it. That had been ... how long ago? A week? Two weeks? A month? Longer? She wasn't sure. All she could remember was the humiliation ...

  She was in one of the second-story halls, on her way to a facial. He came up behind her and wrapped his arms
around her waist, pulling her close to him. She could feel his erection against her.

  Rex put his mouth to her ear, his wet lips moving over it as he spoke: "I want you now, right now, right here."

  "In the hallway?" she whispered.

  "It's my fucking house and my fucking hallway. I want you here. Get on your knees. Put your hands against the wall and spread your legs."

  I'm being arrested, she thought as she did as she was told.

  He pulled her skirt off, ripped her panties away, and as she did the rest, she heard the rustle of clothes being opened and pushed out of the way, but not taken off. A moment later he tore into her ... not in the place she'd expected.

  She clenched her teeth and pressed her lips together to hold back her cry of pain ... because it was always painful, no matter how many times he entered her there.

  As he plunged in and out, in and out, ripping the tissue around his erection as he had so many times before, he spoke in breathless bursts.

  "The magazine's ready ... centerfold's gorgeous ... I'll show it to you ... have a big party ... show you off to the press ... to the public ... make you a star ... make you a big star ...”

  When he was finished, he led her to his office. He kept trying to hold her hand, but she kept finding something for that hand to do — scratch an itch here or there, straighten her hair, smooth the wrinkles on her clothes — so he could not.

  She hated him. Despised him. She walked beside him blandly. When he finally did grasp her hand, she allowed him to hold it, but without response. His hand felt like cold, raw meat, and if given the choice, she would have dropped it in disgust.

  She wasn't quite sure how long it had taken her to feel this way about Rex, to hate him so much that it made her stomach burn. It seemed she'd been in this mansion for years ... but then, it had felt that way in that dark, hidden place, too. Time meant nothing anymore. All she knew was that the initial relief she'd felt upon being brought here was gone ... and now it was replaced by a defensive numbness that was so pervasive, she hardly felt anything anymore.