Shackled

by Ray Garton

  "Yes, we have all the Satanism we need. We do not, however, have sacrifices to spare. You see, we have a system that works perfectly. Those children become ours because of that system. The few who resist, the few who cannot be dealt with — and there are always a few in every batch, like Lynda Williamson — they are used as sacrifices in front of the adult members who work for us. That way, they know we mean business, that we're not just playing with them, or with the children. Unfortunately, thanks to the success of the way we condition these children, not many are available for sacrifice. We usually have just enough rebels to use ... sometimes we're even a bit short. So you see, they are far too valuable, far too profitable, for us to waste them in such a way. That is why the ritualistic sacrifices are used only on the adults. It is something they understand, something that makes an impact. On the other hand, many of the children housed in this complex are far too young to begin to grasp the concept of death. So what good would it do, my dear? Do you understand now? Have I been clear enough? If not, please question me further. I will be glad to tell you anything you want to know."

  She shook her head slowly. "No, that won't be necessary. I understand."

  "Good. Very good." He reached for the next folder on the stack, but stopped when the telephone chirped mechanically. He stood, went to his desk, and picked up the cordless receiver. "Yes?"

  As he listened, he walked slowly back to the table. The slight, gentle smile on his face melted away as his eyebrows lowered and wrinkles cut across his pale forehead. He fell clumsily into his chair and clutched the armrest with his left hand as his eyes began to widen beneath the furrowed brow. Finally, he spoke, his voice low and dry, cracking slightly.

  "Well, then ... keep me posted. I will, uh, make sure all proper precautions are taken. But let me know the moment you find her. Or ... the moment it looks like, uh, trouble."

  He pressed a button on the receiver and placed it gently on the table beside his empty wineglass, which he quickly filled to the rim, draining the bottle in the process. He clunked the bottle onto the table, lifted his glass, and emptied it with a few gulps, releasing a quavering sigh as he pulled the glass away from his mouth.

  Deanna leaned forward. "Uh, is there ... something wrong?"

  "Our girl ... the one we gave RX.? The centerfold?"

  "Yes, what about her?"

  "She just ... opened R.C.'s throat with ... a straight razor ... at the party ... in front of a group of reporters and ... a-and tuh-television cameras."

  "Oh, God!" Deanna gasped, putting a hand over her mouth lightly. "How ... why would she do that? She performed so well here, why would she — "

  Dr. Corbus raised his right fist above his head and brought it down hard on the table, so hard it knocked over his glass, which shattered, and the wine bottle, which rolled off the table and clunked to the carpeted floor. His lips pulled way back over his teeth as he shouted, "I told that Goddamned son of a bitch it might be too soon!"

  Deanna flinched at his shrill, shrieking voice.

  Once he seemed to be calm, she asked, "What does this mean?"

  "She ran away. They're looking for her now. But they expect the place to be ... to be swarming with police at any moment. Now ... that might be all right, because we have many friends in law enforcement, as you know ... friends who will know enough to come to our rescue if they love their families and their homes ... their lives. But it might not be all right. Not if they fail to find that girl. If the wrong people get to her before our people do ... there could be trouble. Because apparently ... that goddamned big-titted twat has a wild hare up her fucking ass and she doesn't like us anymore!" He shot upward so fast that the heavy chair tumbled to the floor behind him. He began to pace, hands clenched into fists with knuckles even whiter than his pale skin.

  Deanna waited a few moments before speaking. She was afraid she was walking on thin ice; she'd never see him like this before.

  "So ... what do we do, Dr. Corbus?"

  "What do you think I'm doing, my dear? Thinking, I'm fucking thinking!” he shouted, flailing his arms. His eyes were huge circles and beads of sweat were beginning to gather on his forehead in spite of the air-conditioning. "Now ... now ... let me see ...” He continued pacing, his hands closing into fists, opening to splay his fingers, then closing, again and again. "The odds are on our side. Even if the wrong people get hold of that little cunt, chances are very good that no one will believe a thing she says. It happens every time. They never believe the victims, the children. Never. As I said before, the stories are simply too outrageous for reasonable people to accept as truth. It's just that ... I've never had this sort of thing happen so close to home ... right in our own front yard, so to speak." He rubbed his temples furiously with his fingertips. "We'll ... we will wait for the next call. Yes. The security man said he would call back within five minutes to apprise me of the situation. If necessary, I will shut down the elevator and begin the evacuation."

  Evacuation? Deanna thought, both surprised and impressed. She'd known nothing about such elaborate precautions, but she did not want to ask Dr. Corbus about them now ... not while he was in this mood.

  Suddenly his movements were calm again, calm and smooth, even graceful. He carefully lifted his chair, seated himself, and reached for the cordless telephone. He punched two buttons, put it to his ear, then waited a moment.

  "Stand by on red," he said quietly. "Yes, that's right, on red ... No, not necessarily. Just in case. There is, at the moment, a crisis in the mansion. Should it develop into a situation that threatens our security, I will alert you immediately." He hung up and placed the receiver on the table with a relaxed smirk on his face.

  "If you don't mind my asking," Deanna said cautiously, "what exactly is this evacuation plan?"

  "Well." He locked his fingers together before him on the table. "Of course, it would be virtually impossible to evacuate all the children we have here. Therefore, we have worked out a very tight system of evacuating only important personnel. Trust me, it will take less than five minutes, and it will work."

  "But the children will be able to identify many of us, to a certain extent. Don't you think if s — "

  "No, they will not."

  She stopped, closed her mouth, and frowned across the table at him.

  "Several members of our staff have been carefully trained to act quickly and efficiently in the event of a security crisis. They will go from room to room, on each floor, and kill each and every child. Then, the rest of us will leave through the emergency exit."

  "Emergency exit?"

  He grinned. The sweat on his forehead was gone now. "Don't worry, my dear. That exit is there waiting for us, and I will take you to it if necessary. You will not leave my side until we get there."

  "But ... what about the children?" she asked, frowning deeply.

  Dr. Corbus's grin disappeared and he stared coldly at her. He spoke quietly. "The children? Come now, Deanna ... surely you are not going to disappoint me by ... by becoming sentimental."

  "No!" she said, emphatically and sincerely, slapping a palm on the tabletop. "Those children are merchandise! People have put down deposits on those things! I can't believe you haven't worked out a plan to take them along, to move them out of here with us!"

  She didn't hold back now. She was upset, even a little confused by what he had told her. And she meant every word.

  The grin returned to Dr. Corbus's face immediately and he placed his locked hands beneath his chin, leaning his elbows on the edge of the table.

  "My dear Dr. Brooks," he said, almost in a whisper, "there will always be other children ... from other people ... in other places. Don't you realize that they are being made every single day? They are as plentiful as garbage ... and, more often than not, just as unwanted. We will have absolutely no trouble replacing them. We have a president who claims to support all efforts to arrest the population explosion, but at the same time gives tax breaks to those who have children, but not those who do not have c
hildren. Welfare in America continues to subsidize the procreation of people who cannot support themselves, let alone their offspring. Don't worry. Children are one of America's great renewable resources. There will always be more children."

  He picked up the telephone again and pressed one button.

  "While we are waiting for that next call," he said to Deanna, "why don't we make the best of our time?" He waited a moment, then said into the telephone, "More wine ...”

  15

  With perspiration glimmering on his dark skin, Shockley entered the mansion's bloody living room, where Rex Calisto lay dead on the table.

  Holding the shotgun at his side, the barrel pointed at the floor, Shockley went to Calisto's side and surveyed the damage. There was a gentle tap on his right shoulder and he turned around to see a large body with a head on top of it. No neck.

  The man was tall, broad-shouldered, and very imposing as he loomed over Shockley. He wore a suit and a cordless listening device in his right ear that looked like a tiny hearing aid. He had dark blond hair, cut short and neat, and bright blue eyes that were completely without expression.

  "Are you a police officer?" the man asked, his voice flat. His face was large, his jaw broad and angular.

  Shockley thought fast. He could pull a Columbo, or he could use his badge, ID and guns to intimidate this man, who was much bigger, and probably much meaner, than himself. He decided on something in between.

  "No, somebody called for a pizza," Shockley dead panned. "Yeah, I'm a cop. See the badge?"

  The man looked at the badge hanging from Shockley's suitcoat pocket, nodded, then said sheepishly, "Hope you don't mind if I ask to get a look at your ID. Nothing personal. Just doing my job."

  Shockley removed the badge, showed him the ID, complete with a photograph, then slipped it back into the pocket. "I guess I got here first," Shockley mumbled, staring at the body.

  "You know," the security man said, "the girl's only got a straight razor and she's not getting far, because we've got men all over the place. Don't you think that shotgun is a little, uh, heavy for this?"

  Shockley lifted his head slowly and looked up at the man as if he'd just barked like a dog. He hefted the shotgun at his side, looked down at it, then shook his head. "Nope. It's not heavy at all. Who is this girl, anyway?"

  "Crystal Daniere, Mr. Calisto's latest centerfold in Visions."

  "What's she look like?"

  "About five-seven, very, um ... curvaceous. She's twenty, has dark blond hair past her shoulders, and she's wearing a black and red gown."

  "Any idea where this Crystal headed?"

  "It was very confusing. I guess if we knew where she went, we wouldn't have called you, would we?"

  "Who made the call, by the way?"

  "One of the guests."

  "You mean one of the many people being herded into those shuttle buses outside and down that hill and to the street like scared sheep? Are those the guests you're talking about?"

  "That's right. Mr. Calisto was throwing a party."

  "And they were all in here when this happened?"

  "Yes."

  "You mind telling me whose idea it was to get rid of all those witnesses before the police got here?"

  "I don't think they wanted to stay. Most of them were pretty upset. Some of them were press, too, with lots of TV cameras and microphones."

  "You mean ... this murder is gonna be on the news tonight?"

  "More than likely."

  "Hey, listen, do you have a chief of security around here, or do all you guys just stand around unsupervised, looking intimidating in your nice suits?"

  The security man's jaw moved back and forth slowly and for a moment Shockley thought the guy was going to hit him in the face. The man seemed to think better of it and, instead, mumbled something into his lapel, then said, "The chief is coming."

  "Hey," Shockley said with a grin, "that's pretty cute. Just like the secret service guys in D.C., huh? You ever get funny looks from people when you talk to your clothes?"

  Shockley watched as the man pressed his lips together tightly and muscles at the corners of his jaw bulged rhythmically as he clenched his teeth again and again.

  "Look, Detective," the man said very quietly, "I have things to do. If you'll wait right here, the chief will be with you in a minute."

  Shockley smiled. "Sure. Thanks for your help."

  The security man turned and stalked out of the room, fists clenched.

  Shockley sighed with relief. The man had scared the hell out of him. Not just because he was big — and he was plenty of that — but because Shockley had a good idea of what was going on here and had a feeling that the large security men were there to guard that dark little secret as much as they were there to guard Calisto, maybe even more.

  He was suddenly alone in the massive room; everyone else had been taken out or left on their own. The corpse lay on the table in its less than dignified position. Calisto's glasses were twisted at an angle over his face and his eyes and bloody mouth were open in a look of shock. His limp hands had been clutching at the leering slit in his throat when he died. Judging from the incredible amount of blood spattered over the table, walls, and floor, he had died quickly. The girl had half decapitated him.

  Why? Shockley wondered as he frowned down at the famous corpse. Was she one of the victims of this outfit? Are all the girls here like that? Stolen? Kidnapped, held captive, trained to behave the way these people want them to ... then put in his girlie magazine, no matter what their age?

  Everything he'd heard from Roberts and Tex had been so confusing and so irrational that he didn't know what to think and was getting a headache fast. But he couldn't ignore it. His only problem now was figuring out what to tell the other cops when they arrived.

  A hand fell on his shoulder and Shockley spun around with a gasp, raising the shotgun slightly.

  "Officer Marcus," the man said. He was tall with blond hair, broad shoulders, and the beginning of a beer belly. "You the one interrupted this call?"

  "I'm the one. Detective Shockley. You the watch commander?"

  "Uh-huh." The cop put his fists on his hips, jutted his elbows, and looked at Shockley sternly. "You'd better have a damned good explanation for that shit over the radio. I ragged on a captain and I'm hopin' I did it for a good reason. And besides that, we're gonna have every available car within fifty miles pullin' up here in the next few minutes. I mean, it's not like nobody's ever heard of this address, you know what I'm sayin'?"

  Shockley nodded. "Yeah," he sighed, "yeah, I know."

  "And what the hell're you doin' with a shotgun, for god's sake?"

  "Why don't we go out to my car. There's something out there I wanna show you. And — " He patted Marcus on the back as the two of them began to leave the room. " — I've got a whole lot to tell you. I think we may have our work cut out for us ...”

  16

  When Dr. Corbus's telephone rang the second time, he snatched it up immediately. "Yes?"

  He did not move a muscle, did not breathe as he listened. His eyes darkened. The pearls of sweat began to reappear on his forehead. One of them trickled down his temple and dribbled over the earpiece of the telephone, from which a tiny voice chattered rapidly.

  "All right. I will handle it." He hung up the telephone and stood, looking at Deanna. There was a hint of fear in his expression, but not panic. At least not yet.

  "What is it now?"

  "There's a string of police cars coming up the hill with lights and sirens on, like they're in a goddamned action movie."

  "How many?" she asked, standing. Her throat felt tight.

  "He couldn't say. He couldn't see the end of the fucking line!" he barked, pounding his fist on the table.

  "Why so many? Why all those cars for just ... one murder?"

  He was suddenly calm again. "Precisely. Either they are attracted to such a famous man's murder, or they somehow ... somehow ...”

  Deanna held her breath a moment a
s Dr. Corbus stared at nothing, thinking, his face just barely disguising the dread that was oozing over it.

  "Or they somehow what? What?"

  "Know more than they should," he whispered. Moving quickly toward the computer and seating himself at his desk, he muttered, "I'm going to shut down the elevator. Just in case ...”

  17

  When the other cops began to arrive, they came up the hill and around the drive in a flood of headlights, flashing red and blue, and a piercing scramble of sirens. And there were still more coming behind them.

  By that time, Shockley had told Marcus everything he knew, quickly and breathlessly, as they sat in Shockley's Toyota. Tex had helped along the way, answering questions as he sat in the backseat, where Shockley had put him earlier.

  Just as Shockley was wrapping up his story, Marcus held up both palms and said, "Listen, listen, now. What you're talking about ... well, providing any of it's solid, if you don't mind my saying, it's FBI stuff. We're here because somebody was killed, and that's all."

  A chill trickled down the back of Shockley's neck as he sat behind the wheel with his shotgun lying across his lap at an angle. After everything that had just tumbled out of his mouth, that was all this guy had to say?

  He remembered the captain screaming profanities over the police radio ... and he thought he might — just might — have the answer to Marcus's smirking, nonchalant reaction to the story. No watch commander in his right mind would snap at a captain the way Marcus had snapped at Berger, especially over the radio where everyone could hear, unless they had a common goal ... unless that watch commander thought the captain was reacting too strongly, unless he knew that the captain would rest easier knowing that things were being taken care of ... by Marcus.