Shackled

by Ray Garton

  Got him in the leg, maybe, Garner thought. Better than a complete miss.

  He sat in the wheelchair, perfectly still, his face suddenly dripping with sweat as he thought frantically.

  It was not a robbery. They were not thugs. The second guy who had come through the door wore a nice gray sportcoat over a black T-shirt, with gray slacks that actually had creases down the fronts of the legs. Besides that, they both had silencers on their guns, for crying out loud! They weren't thugs and they didn't want to steal anything.

  They just wanted to kill him.

  Because they don't like what I know, he thought.

  But how did they know he knew anything? From Coll and Bent? Would they tell? Give his name? No, not unless they were made to. Tortured? Dead, maybe? Or something even worse?

  Garner sent his chair to the phone on the lamp table at the end of the love seat. In the darkness, he fumbled with the buttons on the cordless, but managed to dial Andy Roberts's number — he'd memorized it after using it the first time — without letting go of the gun. He cradled the receiver between his jaw and shoulder and started speaking quietly and rapidly before Roberts was even finished saying "Hello."

  "Detective Roberts, this is Lewis Garner and I'm in big trouble, two guys broke in here, tried to kill me, I killed one of 'em I'm pretty sure, but the other's still alive and I think he's coming after me and I don't have much time! I have a gun but-but-but — the police are on their way, b-buh-but — just get over here now!"

  "Mr. Garner, who are these — "

  "Who the fuck do you think they are?"

  There was a brief moment of silence at the other end, as if Roberts were thinking it over quickly.

  To Garner, the silence went on forever, because it allowed him to hear the movement and the pained grunts of the man in the next room. The sounds were coming closer.

  When Roberts spoke again, words shot over the phone like machine-gun fire. "Try not to kill the other one unless it really means your life, 'cause he might be able to tell us something. Your address?"

  Garner gave him the address and Roberts hung up half a second later. Garner tossed the cordless toward the love seat, but it missed and clunked to the floor.

  The sounds outside continued, but were different now, more controlled. Apparently, the man had gotten to his feet. He was limping badly, almost hopping on one leg. Garner could tell; the floors in his apartment betrayed every move made within its walls, and he could hear the uneven thumps of the man's steps.

  But there was another sound: footsteps outside the apartment, approaching the door.

  Rob was back.

  The apartment's door was open wide, and Garner knew the boy would walk right in from the outside hall without hesitation.

  "Get the fuck outta here, Rob!" Garner screamed. "Get out! Now! Run, for god's sake, run!"

  But it was too late.

  "Holy shit, Garner?" Rob shouted, his voice pathetic with fear, shock. Then: "Nooo!"

  There were two muffled shots.

  Garner heard the sound of several heavy objects hitting the floor and scattering — no doubt the books Rob had brought back with him. Then Rob hit the floor.

  There was silence for a long moment.

  Then, more limping. The front door slammed shut on the outside hallway and Garner heard the dead bolt click home.

  The limping turned and headed toward the living room. Garner's heart pounded in his ears and throat. His chest felt tight and his clothes were sticking to the perspiration that covered his body.

  He turned his chair toward the door through which he'd entered the living room, facing it at an angle, listening to the man's labored movements and pained grunts and cries as he moved closer and closer to that door, slowly but steadily, with purpose.

  Garner began panting uncontrollably. He closed his eyes, feeling dizzy.

  Don't hyperventilate, you idiot! his mind shouted at him. You pass out now and you 're dead meat from the waist up, too, okay?

  He took in a deep, slow breath as his upper body trembled, and held it tight for a moment, bearing down as if he were having a constipated bowel movement.

  He'd learned that while researching some medical thriller for a moronic writer who knew nothing about medicine: the Valsalva maneuver, to prevent hyperventilation.

  He let out the breath slowly, then did it again. Garner let the breath out slowly. He was feeling better. The dizziness and lightheadedness was fading.

  The voice outside muttered epithets between groans: "You son of ... a bitch ... do this to ... to me, you asshole."

  As the voice spoke, the thumping limp grew closer and closer.

  Garner chewed on his lower lip. Roberts had told him to try not to kill the guy because he might be able to tell them something. Garner knew he was right, he probably could answer a lot of questions ... but would he? If he killed the guy, they'd never know and Coll and Bent might never be found. On the other hand, if he tried to wound him, the guy might still be able to get to him. Maybe the guy's leg was wounded, but unlike Garner, he was still walking around.

  Fight or flight, Garner thought. Fight or flight. I can't flee, so ... I might as well try to wound him. If that doesn't work then ... I'll just have to kill the son of a bitch.

  Both options made him feel like throwing up.

  He pushed his glasses up on his sweat-slicked nose and wiped the sweat from his forehead with the back of his left hand, clutching the gun tightly in his right and saying to himself in a weak, tremulous whisper, "On the whole ... I'd ruh-rather b-be in Philadelphia."

  The heavy limping sound grew closer.

  Garner knew there were three parts of the body that caused the most pain when shot: the gut, the genitals, and the knees. A gut shot might kill the guy instantly; a shot to the genitals might make him bleed to death before anyone got there.

  The knees. At least the legs. Garner knew how painful and debilitating that could be.

  Garner looked down at the bottom of the door, where the light crept in.

  The shadow of the man's feet appeared. One was lifted just a fraction of an inch from the floor; the other stood solidly.

  Garner felt himself beginning to pant again and stopped himself by closing his throat, sucking both lips between his teeth, and biting down hard.

  The doorknob jiggled hard a few times.

  When that failed, the man grumbled to himself and a fist pounded on the door five times in different places.

  Then he threw himself against the door hard, but with a piercing cry of pain.

  He stopped and just growled and whimpered for a while, like a wounded animal.

  He's gonna shoot his way through, Garner thought. At least, he's gonna try. And if he makes it ...

  Garner lifted the gun, holding it in both hands. He aimed it in the general direction of the man's legs, should he come through the door.

  You asshole! Garner thought. You should be aiming for his gut or his chest or his fucking head, for god's sake! This guy wants to kill you!

  He even started raising the gun higher, slowly ... but he couldn't. Not if it meant finding Coll. He had been too good a friend to Garner for too long. He kept the gun low. He thought of Pastor Walker as he began to pray for the first time in his life, to really pray, frantically and earnestly. Amid the confused muddle of prayers shooting through his head like lightning bolts was a plea for forgiveness, because he was planning to destroy — perhaps permanently — someone else's legs, when he had no legs to walk on himself. The thought of it knotted his guts, even though the man was coming in to kill him.

  Just outside, the gun fired four times.

  Around the doorknob, wood splintered and chips flew into the darkness. The doorknob itself clanked loosely to one side, hanging at an odd angle, like the head of a man with a broken neck.

  The door creaked open an inch or so.

  Garner clutched the butt of the gun hard with his left hand, curling the index finger of his right around the trigger.

 
A fist hit the door hard and it swung open to reveal the man standing in silhouette against the light from outside the living room.

  He stared into the darkness of the living room, facing a spot about three feet from Garner. His breathing was fast and ragged as he leaned heavily against the doorjamb, holding the gun between both hands.

  "You bastard," the man spat.

  Garner aimed at the knees and began to fire.

  An instant after Garner's first shot, the man began to fire, too, screaming as his gun swung from right to left, firing again and again, white flashes burping from the silencer with each shot.

  The man hit the floor and Garner pulled his finger away from the trigger after his tenth shot, panting for breath as he made small squealing noises in his throat.

  Garner had seen the man's legs and knees shattering before he'd fallen, bits of bone scattering over the floor, and knew he would not be getting up soon. If ever. But that did not mean he wasn't a danger to Garner. He kept the gun aimed at the man, his hands shaking.

  The man continued to scream, high and shrill, like a thickly congested baby. The gun had fallen to the floor about a foot from his left hand, which was jerking and clutching desperately. The screams became groaning, growling, animal like sounds that babbled incomprehensible words.

  Garner felt tears on his cheeks, but ignored them as he switched the gun to his left hand, hit the control on his chair to move toward the fallen man, and reached down for the gun. He had to lean far over the armrest of his wheelchair, had to try to hook a finger in the trigger guard to pick it up.

  Garner had half the gun a fraction of an inch off the floor when the man reached out with a growl and grabbed his wrist in an iron grip, screaming senselessly through clenched teeth, spraying saliva onto Garner's hand and wrist.

  Garner cried out, shocked, afraid, and tried to pull away, but, the man's grip tightened as his wet, agonized sounds became another horrible scream and his head lifted off the floor, turning to look up at Garner.

  Lifting the gun in his left hand, holding on to it tightly, Garner felt his wheelchair tilting to his right, tipping ... tipping ... Garner screamed with childlike helplessness. The man who was pulling him over laughed a throaty, gurgling laugh, faint light glittering off his wet teeth as Garner's wheelchair tipped over slowly and clumped to the floor.

  Garner began to squeal. His legs — the closest thing he had to legs — had been taken from him.

  "Son of a bitch bastard," the man growled as he continued to clutch Garner's arm, trying to prop himself up on his left side as he pulled Garner out of the chair and on top of him. He pulled Garner's face close to his.

  Garner closed his throat, stopping the squealing, and stretched out his left arm. He pressed the barrel of the gun to the back of the man's right knee — which was already shattered and bloody — and fired.

  The man released an agonized, wolflike scream and pulled his hand away from Garner's wrist so he could pound both hands to the floor again and again, like a child throwing a tantrum.

  Garner looked down at his left hand, holding the gun that was still pressed against the back of the man's bloody, useless knee ... and he saw his own legs.

  In the darkness, the blood that covered them looked like runny grape jam, shining ever so slightly in the light from the open door. Each leg had been shot in the shin and the pants were open like bloody flowers. It looked as if the bones had been shattered.

  Garner began to laugh ... it was quiet at first, but soon became a hysterical laugh that rang loudly through the entire apartment.

  His laugh was so loud that he did not hear the door of his apartment being broken open, or the footsteps that thumped into the apartment and across the wooden floor, coming toward him.

  "Mr. Garner!" Andy Roberts barked.

  The overhead light in the living room flicked on, making Garner close his eyes tightly as he continued laughing.

  The detective knelt beside Garner, placed a comforting hand behind his head, and said, "Please, Mr. Garner, calm down. You're fine, everything's fine. I'm here now. Detective Roberts. Calm down, please. It's okay now."

  It took about two minutes, but Garner finally stopped laughing. He was still not quite himself, however. He looked up at Roberts with wide eyes and asked, "Wuh-would you like a-a san-sandwich?"

  "Mr. Garner, we've got this man here and he knows things we need to know. Do you understand? The police might get here at any minute. An ambulance will come. They'll take him away. We won't be able to ask him anything. Now ... you're fine, you're just fine. You got some bleeding, here, but if you don't mind my saying, I don't think anything's been wounded that's gonna cause permanent damage, you know what I mean?"

  Garner started laughing again, but swallowed it quickly.

  "Now, listen to me," Roberts said. "Do you understand the importance of having this man here, Mr. Garner?"

  Garner blinked several times. His open mouth slapped shut and he stared up at Roberts, his face becoming serious.

  "I'm sorry," Garner croaked.

  "No problem at all, Mr. Garner, you've been through some bad stuff. I understand. So, what do you say we start asking him some questions, huh?"

  Garner nodded.

  "It's just that I'm gonna need your help, so you've got to keep your head, okay? Just calm down, think about what's at stake here, and let's get some answers outta this son of a bitch."

  Garner nodded again, more confidently this time.

  Roberts slid the man's gun across the floor, where the man could not reach it, then flipped him over, ready to do anything he had to in order to get answers from him before the uniforms arrived ...

  PART FIFTEEN

  In the Lion's Den

  1

  Ethan and Ed sat together in the plush, comfortable seats of the bus, with Doc sitting in the aisle seat directly behind them. Across from them, a beautiful young woman in a revealing evening gown sat on the aisle. She was the star of countless B-grade horror movies in which she inevitably took her clothes off before being killed by a psychopath or some hideous monster. Sitting next to her was a well-known game-show host with a chin almost as big as his hair.

  They were heading up the hill, nearing the mansion's front gate.

  Ed leaned over, smiling slightly, and whispered into Ethan's ear, "Remember everything I told you, okay? 'Cause it's important."

  Ethan leaned back in his chair, going over everything Ed had told him, trying to hold off his nervousness enough to remember it all ...

  They had followed the shuttle down to the massive parking garage of the Beverly Hilton Hotel, where several people were waiting for the ride. They were a bit surprised to see another shuttle just leaving the parking lot with a load of partygoers as they arrived.

  "If this guy's dick is as long as his guest list," Ed muttered, "no wonder he's always surrounded by gorgeous women." Then he smirked and winked at Ethan. "S'cuse my language, Padre."

  Ed told Ethan to go into the parking garage and find a space on the first level, if possible. The first space Ethan could find, however, was on the third level. He took it.

  Once the car was parked, the three of them got out, Ethan moving with more reluctance than Ed and Doc. Ed stepped away from the car, looked around them, and grumbled, "There's gotta be a john in here somewhere."

  Doc lifted an arm, pointed a finger, and croaked, "There."

  Ed nodded. "Okay, fine. Let's get the clothes and change." He turned to Ethan, who still stood by the driver's side door, stiff and uncertain. "Hey, Padre, you wanna throw me the keys? We gotta get into the trunk."

  Ethan stared at him for a long moment, then hurried around the car to Ed's side. "If you don't mind, I'd like to know what's going on here. What are you doing? Exactly what do you have in mind?"

  "Look, Padre," Ed said with a smile, "you're in a nice suit, there, right? I mean, what with you bein' a preacher and all, that's probably what you're used to wearin', right? Now, me and Doc, here, we aren't like you. We gotta
different wardrobe altogether. But if the three of us're gonna walk into Rex Calisto's mansion, then we'd better all be pretty well dressed, y'know? Nice, good-lookin' suits. Good clothes, know what I mean? Otherwise, we might not fit in. Might draw attention to ourselves. Don't wanna do that."

  Ethan frowned. "This suit cost me fifty-nine dollars at a discount outlet. Do you think I will fit in?"

  Grinning now, Ed slapped a hand on Ethan's arm. "Listen, Padre, if we do this right, nobody in that castle's gonna notice us. The three of us go in there wearin' suits and ties, they won't even know we're there, okay? In fact, we'll be like ghosts. We'll be walkin' around all them rich, famous people, and they won't even see us. Just as long as we keep our cool. You hear what I'm sayin', Padre? We gotta keep our cool. You gotta keep your cool, no matter what you might see or hear. And you can do that as long as you follow our lead."

  Ethan cocked his head, his frown deepening. "Lead? Lead? What lead? What are you talking about?"

  Ed held up both hands, palms out. "Hey, hey, whoa. Just give us a little time. Why don't you open the trunk, we'll get our clothes, go change, then we'll talk about our plan, okay?"

  Very cautiously, glancing at Ed a few times, Ethan muttered, "Plan ... plan ...” He realized just how frightened he was when he saw his hand shake as he tried to get the key in the lock.

  Ed removed a fat garment bag and a briefcase from the trunk, smiled, and nodded at Ethan, then he and Doc headed for the rest room.

  Leaving the trunk open, Ethan paced beside the car as he waited, hands locked behind him, then rubbing together before him, then looked behind him, the clocking sound of his shoes echoing throughout the garage. He wasn't sure how much time had passed when Ed and Doc came out of the rest room, but they looked fresh and relaxed. At least, Ed did; Doc never seemed to be anything more than mechanical.

  They were both dressed in expensive Italian suits and were so neat and dapper, they looked like different men altogether. Doc carried the garment bag and Ed the briefcase. Doc replaced the bag, then slammed the lid of the trunk.