Shackled

by Ray Garton

  "And the folks who lived in the trailer? What were they doing there?"

  Tex started to cry again, softly at first, then his shoulders began to quake as he sobbed. "They were my friends!" he bellowed through his sobs. "Hell, I was just doin' 'em a favor, they was hard up, they needed a place to live, for god's sake! But then ... then they got involved with them damned guys, that reporter and that writer ... and I was ... I was given instructions."

  "What kind of instructions?"

  "They, um, told me that ... I had to help 'em."

  "Help them do what?"

  "Snag them two guys and then ... then kill, um ...” He started sobbing again. " ... then kill David and Nattie." "So you killed 'em, huh, Tex?"

  "Yeah, Jesus god, yeah I did."

  "And you don't like it?"

  "Shit no, I don't like it! What the fuck kinda guy you think I am? They was my friends!"

  "Then why did you do it?"

  "You know what them people are like? Huh? You don't do what they tell you and ... well, they just might ... they're, um ... well, you just don't fuck with them people, that's all."

  "Fine, that's fine, you're doin' good, Tex. So, tell me. How do you keep in touch with those fine folks, huh?"

  "You mean the Satanists? Well, through the computer and, um ... and, um ...”

  Tex stopped and closed his eyes.

  "You're not answering my question, Tex. How do you keep, in touch with 'em?"

  Eyes still closed, Tex said, "The computer."

  "Yeah, but you were about to say something else. What was it, huh?"

  Tex did not reply.

  Ed dove forward, drove a knee into Tex's stomach, and pushed him back on the bed, then pressed the barrel of the gun, once again, to his eye. "I asked you a fuckin' question!" he roared. "How do you communicate with those people?"

  Tex squealed. "Telephone! Telephone!"

  "What's the number?"

  "I-it's in my buh-book!"

  "Where's your fuckin' book?"

  "Table! By the bed! Your side! In the drawer!"

  "Doc?" Ed said, glancing over his shoulder.

  Doc got the book, a black, vinyl-covered, three-ringed address book, from the drawer and handed it to Ed.

  "What's it under?" Ed asked, slapping the book onto the bed and opening it.

  "F, for friend. Top of the page. There's no name or nothin', just a number."

  Ed flipped through the pages with his free hand until he found the page he wanted. He plucked the page from the book and set it aside.

  "Who's at the other end of this number?" Ed asked.

  "I don't know. Just somebody who listens, takes my information. That's all I know, really."

  "Okay, so where's this mansion?"

  "Dammit, I told you I don't have any fuckin' idea where it is!"

  Ethan moved toward them quickly. "Ed, I think I might know what he's talking about."

  Ed turned to him, gun still pressed to Tex's head. "What?"

  "On the phone, in the car ... do you remember? I got a call on the way here?"

  "Yeah, so?"

  "It was Garner. Rob had been trying to trace the number of one of those Satanic cult computer networks to a specific location. The location was Calisto's mansion in Los Angeles."

  Ed looked at him for a moment, blinking his eyes.

  "Mansion? Do you see what I'm trying to say?"

  Very slowly, Ed began to nod. "Yeah. Yeah, I think I do."

  "Hey, look," Tex said. "I don't know nothin' about that, okay? Really, I don't — "

  Ed grabbed Tex's jacket collars, pulled him into a sitting position, and pushed the gun into his face. "Just shut the fuck up, Li'l Abner. Speak when you're spoken to." Ed turned back to Ethan, frowning. "You really think that could be the place?" he asked quietly.

  Ethan shrugged. "It just struck me as odd ... what Garner said and what this guy said. I thought I'd mention it."

  Ed turned and frowned at nothing in particular, thinking. "Well, it sure ain't out of the question. With something weird as this ... nothin's out of the question." He turned to Tex again. "Okay, asswipe, on your feet. Let's take a little tour of your humble abode, here."

  "Look," Tex said as he stood cautiously, "all I got is a little bathroom and a — "

  "Then we wanna see it. Now."

  Moving on unsteady knees, he led them down a narrow corridor with a creaky, uneven wood floor and into the small bathroom.

  It smelled worse than the room they'd just come from and looked as though it hadn't been cleaned in a year or two.

  "What else?" Ed. asked.

  "A ... well, it's just a little room down ... at the end of the hall, 'sall. Nothin' there, really," he added, speaking faster now, sounding quietly desperate. "Nothin' you want's in there, you ain't gonna find a damned thing, really, just a — "

  "Lead the way," Ed growled.

  He led them the rest of the way down the corridor to the room. "It's locked," Tex said. "Key's on the ring. The square one. In the middle."

  As Doc stepped forward, searching for the key on the ring, Ed said, "Locked, huh? Hell, must not be a damned thing in there."

  Doc opened the door and they stepped into the worst odor of all. There was only one window in the room, a small one, with a black blanket tacked over it; a small amount of light seeped into the room from around the blanket's edges.

  It was stuffy, no ventilation, filled with stale air that smelled of body odor and ... something else. The odor, lingering like a ghost, of sex ... sticky, sweaty sex.

  There was a small bed in the room; from the wall above the headboard hung two long chains with manacles on the ends. Near the end of the bed, sticking up from the sides, were two more manacles that looked like makeshift stirrups. All four manacles were very small ...

  ... small enough to hold the wrists of a child.

  More magazines and snapshots were scattered over the floor, along with a number of panties ... little girls' panties, pink, yellow, blue, with prints of flowers and zoo animals and moons and stars on them.

  Through the murky darkness, something stood facing them in the far corner. Ethan squinted, stepped forward.

  "My god," he breathed, his heart stopping for an instant when he realized it was a little girl.

  Doc flicked on an overhead light.

  It wasn't a little girl. It was a three-foot-tall inflatable doll with plastic blond hair, pigtails in red bows, and tiny nipples on its chest. The eyes were wide and blue. The mouth gaped in a yawning O. Just between the small legs, Ethan could make out part of an opening similar to the mouth.

  Ed turned to Tex very slowly, jaw slack, and said with more deadly threat in his voice than Ethan had ever heard, "I oughtta kill you right now, you sick fuck."

  As he stepped farther into the room, a voice far in the back of Ethan's head told him he should protest; they needed Tex and they needed him healthy. But he couldn't stop looking around the room ... and thinking of Samuel ... little Samuel.

  He lowered himself slowly to one knee as tears began to roll down his cheeks before he even knew he was crying.

  How many children had been brought here and shackled to the bed ... tortured ... raped ... battered ... dehumanized ... even killed?

  How old had they been? Ten ... nine ... seven ... five?

  Ethan brought the other knee down to the floor and slowly bowed his head, closing his puffy, tear-glistening eyes.

  "Okay, fuckhead," Ed growled at Tex, "you're comin' with us, you understand? Keep bein' a good boy and I won't have to disfigure you any more than you already are." Ed handed the gun to Doc and said, "Take him out to the car. Backseat. He tries anything, put one in his kneecap. He ain't gonna do us any good dead."

  But Ethan didn't hear Ed's voice, or the footsteps as Doc took Tex out of the room. He was deep in silent, tearful prayer among the small, soiled panties ... among the glossy magazines and crude snapshots ... all showing naked children having sex with adults ... with one another ... with ani
mals ... with inanimate objects ...

  Ed put a big hand on Ethan's shoulder and squeezed gently. "Hey, look, Padre," he whispered. "Sorry, uh, to interrupt your prayers. I know this must be tough on you ... with your son gone and all ... but it doesn't mean we ain't gonna find him, you know."

  Slowly, Ethan looked up at Ed, his wet eyes blinking. For a moment, he seemed about to speak — his lips moved and his jaw worked — but nothing came out. So he simply stared at Ed with glistening, pain-filled eyes.

  Ed hooked a hand under Ethan's arm and lifted him to his feet. "C'mon, Padre, let's get outta here. This place makes me sick."

  Ethan nodded as they left, but still said nothing ...

  So Ethan began driving as Ed gave directions from a map he'd taken from Tex's store. Tex was in the backseat, hands still bound behind him, with Doc holding a gun to his head.

  "You know," Ed said, "I think things've gone pretty good so far. I mean, we got this scumbag back there, we know more than we did a few hours ago, right? Don't you think so, Padre? I mean, hell ... I think we're already ahead of the game, don't you think?"

  "Yes," Ethan said. "Yes, of course."

  Ethan drove the unfamiliar territory even more carefully than usual, trying not to get lost in thoughts of Samuel, of Loraina and Anice. He tried, instead, to concentrate on what they were doing and where they were headed.

  Rex Calisto's mansion in Los Angeles ...

  11

  Bent woke up slowly for the ... how many times had it been? Colors melted together blearily for a while, then slowly cleared up. Not entirely, though. Everything had a slight blur to it, a soft, ghostly focus. Until he looked down.

  The tabletop was covered with his blood, smeared like a child's finger painting. His little finger was completely gone. There was nothing but a small, lumpy mass of charred flesh just above his knuckle. The three sections — pale and bloody pieces of what used to be that last finger on his right hand — were arranged neatly along the front edge of the tabletop.

  But there was a fourth piece. One more. It was fatter than the others and had a fingernail on it.

  The tip of another finger.

  "Oh no no no," Bent breathed, shaking his head back and forth as if he were having a spasm. He looked at his hand again.

  The tip of the next finger was gone. The wound had been cauterized.

  Bent sucked his lower lip between his teeth and bit it hard, taking deep, slow breaths. What had he told them? What had he said? He couldn't remember. Everything was a nightmarish blur. Had he given them any names? Told them where to find anyone?

  "You are with us once again, Mr. Noble," Dr. Corbus said, smiling, his pale, long-fingered hands joined before him. "You appear to have come out of your quite understandable stupor. So, why don't we continue now."

  Behind Dr. Corbus stood a man in a white coat. He was completely bald on top with graying black hair slicked back over his ears. He didn't move, didn't even blink ... just seemed to wait.

  Dr. Corbus went on. "You have now lost an entire finger and we have started on another. Therefore, if you value those rather useful digits, I suggest you give an acceptable answer to every question I ask you from now on. Agreed?"

  Bent made a motion with his head that might have been taken as a weak nod.

  "Where is Pastor Ethan Walker right now?" Dr. Corbus asked.

  Bent's eyes widened slightly. What did I tell them about Ethan? he wondered.

  "At home?" Dr. Corbus asked. "With other friends of yours? In hiding? Where?"

  "I ... don't ... know. Really. That's the god's honest truth."

  Dr. Corbus stepped toward him, smirking now, one side of his mouth curled upward contemptuously. "We have no use for the god's honest truth here, Mr. Noble," he said with a breathy chuckle. "We're evil, nasty Satanists. Remember?"

  Bent took a few quick breaths, clenched his teeth again, and said loudly in a dry, ragged voice, "Okay, then ... it's the Satan's honest truth! All right? You happy now?"

  The smirk became a smile. "We have no use for that either. None at all. Remember, I told you that no matter how much you may think you know about us ... you know nothing at all."

  "Okay, then ... whatever ... all I'm trying to say is that I ... I honestly don't know where he is. I don't."

  "I think I can accept that. But you must remember something, my friend. We know where he lives. We know where to find his wife Loraina and his little girl Anice. Now, technically, we might not have to do anything about them. After all, chances are, they have been kept at the very edge of the loop of information, if not out of it altogether. But that is up to you. I may need to have someone pay them a rather unpleasant visit unless I find out who else is really involved in this story. And you can tell me. Now, Mr. Noble ... are you going to do that? Or are you not?"

  Bent closed his eyes and began to cry. He didn't know what he'd said so far, but he couldn't bring himself to kill those people with his own admissions ... Garner and Rob and maybe even Loraina and Anice, because maybe Dr. Corbus was bluffing.

  He said nothing. He just tensed every muscle in his body and waited.

  He felt the metal against his finger.

  He heard the ugly crunch of his own bone.

  Then he screamed and passed out once again ...

  12

  As they drove through the murkiness of early evening, Ethan clutched the wheel so hard that his hands ached. He'd been thinking silently for a long time and suddenly glanced at Ed and said, "Pick up that phone and call Garner."

  "What for?"

  "Because I think it's a good idea."

  "A good idea? What're you gonna tell him, that we're — "

  "Just do it!" Ethan shouted.

  Ed flinched, then smiled. "Hey, Padre, you're okay, y'know that?" He picked up the phone, punched in the number, then handed it over to Ethan.

  With one hand on the wheel, steering a bit uncertainly, Ethan held the phone to his ear and waited, until —

  "Hello?"

  "Garner? It's Ethan."

  "Hey, how's it going?"

  "Look, I'm going to keep this short. We have a man with us who has told us about the murder of the Kotters and the kidnapping of both Bent and Coll."

  "No shit!”

  "Right now, we're headed for Rex Calisto's mansion. I want you to do something for me, right away. Immediately."

  "Name it."

  "I want you to call Detective Roberts and tell him everything. You know who I'm talking about? The fellow Bent and Coll talked to?"

  "Yeah, I know. Bent gave me his number."

  "Call him and tell him everything, do you understand? Tell him what we discovered on the computer, that a number led us to the Calisto mansion, and that we're heading there right now."

  "Why? I mean ... he's in San Francisco."

  "I know, but I want someone to know what's happening. I want someone to finally take this thing seriously! Do you understand? Will you do that?"

  "Yeah, I'll do it, but ... I don't know what good it'll do. Really, I don't."

  Ethan took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "To be honest, Garner ... I don't know if any good can be done at this point."

  After a moment, Garner said, "I'll call him right away."

  "Thank you, Garner. And, uh, while you're at it ... call my wife and, uh ... tell her that I love her."

  There was a longer silence, cluttered with the sputtering static of distance. Then Garner said, "You got it, Pastor. I'll do that."

  "Thanks." Ethan hung up the phone ...

  13

  When Coll awoke, the headache was still with him, pushing against the inner walls of his skull with tremendous strength.

  "You passed out," Deanna said. "How do you feel?"

  "Headache. A bad ... headache."

  "Probably the ether. They used it on me, too."

  Coll sat up very slowly again, careful not to move too fast, not to feed the flames of his pain. "But why? I mean ... why you?"

  "Why are yo
u asking me, Coll? I don't know why I'm here. All they'd tell me was that it was because of you. Apparently, they think I know something. They think a lot of people know something, people you've talked to, told things to. Now, I know you're in pain and you're groggy, but Coll, you've got to think! What have you done to get us here? Who have you done it with? Who have you talked to about this?"

  Coll's thoughts swam through the pain in his head, trying to find the clear air at the surface.

  "They had no reason to get to you, Deanna," he said, his voice hoarse. "You don't ... have anything ... to do with this ... do you?"

  "With what! she snapped. "Coll, I don't know what the hell you're talking about!"

  Coll lowered his head, squeezed it between his hands for a moment, then messaged his temples with the tips of his rigid fingers as he clenched his eyes tightly shut. He was thinking the whole time, groping for something he knew he should be remembering, something that was just out of reach of his thoughts, something about Deanna and —

  "My key," he said, raising his head slowly. "You had my key. You were the only one."

  "What key? What are you talking about?"

  "They killed Borgnine, Deanna. They came into the apartment while I was gone ... killed Borgnine ... and nailed his heart to my bedroom wall."

  She blinked rapidly several times and her mouth opened, closed, then opened again, but she said nothing as she stared at him, frowning. She turned her head right to left once in a silent gesture of denial, and then ... her mouth was closed, the frown was gone, and she was herself again.

  "I don't know what you're talking about," she said. "I'm very sorry to hear about Borgnine, Coll, I really am. But how could you possibly think that I — "

  "You gave them the key, didn't you?" he asked, his voice a low rasp. He lowered himself carefully from the edge of the bed and took a step toward her. "Did you know that was what they were going to do? Kill Borgnine?"

  She retreated one step, eyes widening slightly. "Coll, yuh-you're ... you don't know what you're talking about. How could I — "

  Coll meant to throw himself on her, but he was still so weak and his head was still throbbing so intensely that he fell on her, slamming her back against the wall. His right hand was on her throat in a second and his teeth were grinding to hold back his screams of rage. He squeezed her throat with his right hand, pushing her against the wall at the same time, using his left to lean against the wall for fear of falling.