Shackled

by Ray Garton

  Ed slapped a hand over his face and pressed thumb and fingers into his temples as he closed his eyes tightly.

  When he opened his eyes, his vision was much clearer ... and his target was gone.

  That bastard! Ed thought as he clambered to his feet.

  At first, intense pain shot through his right leg like electricity coming through bright silver hooks that were buried in his calf.

  Ed tilted his head back, grinding his teeth and closing his eyes tightly, concentrating on wiping the pain away. He held his breath for a while, then relaxed.

  He walked with a limp, but refused to feel the pain.

  He swept the flashlight around to see —

  — golf carts. There were golf carts everywhere. At least thirty of them, maybe more, lined up neatly in the dark, some with bags of golf clubs strapped to the rear, all of them facing the large, rectangular, garagelike door that made up one whole side of the building, the side directly across from Ed.

  He swung the light around, looking for his prey.

  Dr. Corbus was nowhere in sight.

  Ed limped among the golf carts, looking ... looking.

  Dr. Corbus had disappeared. Ed decided he had probably planned for just such a situation. But he could not give up; that man held a detonator that would blow up the complex and everyone in it, and Ed was not going to be easily discouraged.

  Suddenly, to his right, Ed heard a sound and jerked his head in that direction.

  Dr. Corbus popped up from behind the side of one of the golf carts, his gun held in both hands. He fired.

  Ed dropped to the floor instantly, lying on his side as Dr. Corbus fired his gun three times.

  Ed's flashlight clacked against the concrete as he stretched out his right arm, placed the machine pistol flat on the floor, and squeezed the trigger, sweeping the gun back and forth over the concrete with a clattering sound.

  Dr. Corbus let out a shrill scream and dove up from the floor to throw himself across the seats of the golf cart behind which he was hiding.

  In spite of his wounded leg, Ed got to his feet in an instant and shined the flashlight in the direction from which the gunshots had come.

  He saw Dr. Corbus lying across one of the golf carts, heard him groaning, and Ed dashed forward. He dove forward and threw himself on Dr. Corbus, groping for that pager on the man's belt.

  Dr. Corbus struggled. He sent an elbow upward into Ed's stomach, hard.

  Ed was not expecting it and grunted with pain, rolling aside slightly, giving Dr. Corbus just enough room to prop himself up one one elbow and raise his left hand, which held the gun, over Ed's head, ready to slam it down ...

  16

  Lacey hurried to Ethan's side, wanting to get away from Bent, who seemed to be dying before her eyes. She could not bear to see someone dying in front of her, couldn't stand it!

  "Pastor Walker," she hissed as she hunkered down beside him, "I'm so scared, I'm ... I'm sick, I'm so scared!"

  "Don't worry, dear, things'll be just fine, don't you worry."

  "But, Pastor, I ... I've been ... I've done ...” She bowed her head as she folded her legs and sat beside him Indian style. She kept her head down as she spoke in a faint whisper. "My mother ... she was very religious. My father, um, he, um, he abused me. He did — " She shook her head slowly from right to left. " — terrible things to me. I told my mother, but she said that ... that it wasn't true, and that even if it was, um ... I was probably at fault and I should ... should ask Jesus for forgiveness."

  Ethan started to speak, but she interrupted him.

  "I'm scared now. I may die. We all may die." Tears stung her eyes and began to trickle slowly down her cheeks as she kept her head down. "I-if I've duh-done something wrong ... I don't want to die with that on my huh-head. I don't want to go to, um, to ... to hell."

  Ethan reached out a hand and clutched her upper arm tightly. "My dear, you've done nothing wrong, nothing! You are the one who has been wronged! I don't care how religious your mother is! If she said that to you, if she told you that and meant it ... then all the religion in the world will not save her, because she has committed an unspeakable crime, and under no circumstances should you consider her a follower of Christ. She is a misguided person who needs a great deal of help, and she can't — "

  Suddenly Lacey released a pent-up sob and threw herself onto Ethan's lap, clutching at his thighs desperately as she cried, "I don't wanna die like this, please pray for me, pray for me!”

  Samuel lifted his head and fluttered his puffy eyes. "Lacey?" he called quietly. "Is that Lacey?"

  She sat up immediately and placed a hand against Samuel's cheek. "Yes, it's Lacey," she said quietly, almost — but not quite — smiling.

  The boy lifted a small hand into the air, groping. Lacey took the tiny hand into hers and leaned close to Samuel.

  "Yes, Samuel, it's Lacey. And we're gonna be fine."

  Ethan watched her for a long time, until her eyes met his. She was still trying to smile, still holding Samuel's hand.

  "Apparently, you know my son," Ethan whispered. "And apparently, you have earned his trust. His love. How could you possibly be as bad as you think you are, dear?"

  She looked into Ethan's eyes. "Well ... I guess I'm not sure," she whispered back.

  Ethan smiled. "Then don't worry about religion. God is already smiling on you ...”

  17

  As Dr. Corbus brought the gun down, Ed shot his left arm up at the last instant and stopped it, shining the flashlight directly into Dr. Corbus's shocked face. They struggled, but Ed was much stronger than Dr. Corbus.

  Ed realized that the barrel of the machine pistol was trapped beneath Dr. Corbus's side, somewhere in the area of the good doctor's ribs. He squeezed the trigger and let the bullets rip out of the barrel.

  Dr. Corbus screamed and rose up from the seat as if he were levitating. He hooked his left elbow over the top of the seat's back, brought the gun in his right hand down blindly, and fired.

  A bullet shot through Ed, just between his clavicle and his throat. Ed merely released a low growl, like an animal, and jerked upward, swinging both arms at Dr. Corbus, hitting him in the side of the temple with the flashlight and knocking him over the back of the seat.

  Dr. Corbus cried out in frustration as he rolled over and landed onto the two seats in the back.

  Ed ignored his pain and threw himself into the backseat on top of Dr. Corbus, pressing the barrel of the machine pistol just beneath his nose, and pressing it hard.

  They struggled and fought, and as Ed pressed his forearm to Dr. Corbus's throat, he groped for the pager, his fingers clawing at the man's belt.

  But Dr. Corbus fought back. He reached up with both hands, making gurgling sounds in his throat as Ed's arm pressed against it, and tried to shove his thumbs into Ed's eyes.

  Ed pulled his head back, growling through clenched teeth, as he continued to grope for that pager, that little square piece of plastic, until —

  —Dr. Corbus brought his knee up very, very hard between Ed's legs.

  Ed fell away from him, making a wet throaty sound, and collapsed on the seat as Dr. Corbus tumbled his way out the back of the golf cart.

  Clutching his groin, Ed curled into a fetal position, groaning for a bit as the pain worked its way up from his testicles and into his abdomen, combining with the pain in his leg and shoulder.

  But he could hear Dr. Corbus getting away. He could hear his footsteps, his panting breaths. He could also feel the blood trickling down over his chest from the second bullet wound that Dr. Corbus had given him. He could almost feel the bullet lodged inside him, smashed against some bone somewhere, a piece of lead just sitting there in his body, laughing at him ... because of Dr. Corbus.

  But then, Dr. Corbus had been doing much worse for much longer ...

  He ignored the pain in his shoulder. And in an instant, he also ignored the pain in his nuts. He rolled over those two backseats, jumped out of the back of the golf cart, and started lo
oking for Dr. Corbus, sweeping the flashlight this way and that.

  There was a sudden loud noise that startled Ed, and he froze.

  It was the sound of the massive door pulling upward, disappearing into the top part of the rectangular opening.

  There was another sound, and Ed jerked his head in its direction: Dr. Corbus jumping into one of the front golf carts.

  "Holy shit," Ed grumbled as he hurried toward that sound, moving his flashlight back and forth ... until the beam of light landed on Dr. Corbus's head behind the wheel of one of the carts. The instant the door was up high enough, the cart shot out of the shed and into the night.

  "Oh, Lord," Ed muttered as he began to run, fighting to block the incredible pain in his leg. He ran as fast as he could, limping only slightly, following the cart out of the shed and over thick, soft grass, which was better than concrete.

  The cart did not move very fast. What golf cart did? Ed smiled as he closed in on the back of the cart, dropping his flashlight. There was a bag of golf clubs strapped to the rear of the cart, and he threw his arms out, hoping to grab on to that bag ... but he didn't.

  He continued running as he raised the machine pistol and began to fire.

  Bullets ripped through the night—

  —but only for a second. The gun died.

  There were no more bullets.

  Ed did not miss a step, but he clenched his teeth and growled, "Shit!" as he threw the machine pistol aside, reaching for the SIG 226 and pulling it from beneath his belt as he dove for the back of the cart, dove hard, launching himself from the ground as if he were in a circus act.

  He wrapped his arms around the golf bag as his feet dragged the ground for a while, then he pulled his legs up until he was kneeling on the running board to which the golf bag was strapped.

  Dr. Corbus tossed a glance over his shoulder, then began turning the cart this way and that, back and forth, jerking Ed from one side to the other.

  Ed aimed the SIG and began to fire: one, two, three, four.

  Dr. Corbus lowered his head until he was invisible, except for his hands on the wheel of the golf cart.

  Ed continued firing, trying to aim for the back of the seat, hoping at least one bullet would get through to Dr. Corbus's body ... but the cart continued to jerk this way and that, and Ed jerked with it.

  He missed again and again and again —

  — until the gun gave him nothing more than a sharp, metallic click!

  Ed released a groan as he tossed the handgun aside. Then he grabbed one of the golf clubs from the bag and began to crawl forward.

  Suddenly Dr. Corbus's right arm swung back over the seat and fired a shot at Ed.

  Ed fell into the backseat as Dr. Corbus fired again and again.

  Lying on his back across the two seats, Ed clutched the club in two hands, waited a moment for the shooting to stop, then sat up and swung the club hard.

  It hit the side of Dr. Corbus's head and he fell to his left, his arms falling away from the wheel. He tumbled out of the cart and onto the grass, without a sound.

  Ed stumbled between the front seats until he was behind the wheel. He brought the cart to a stop, got out, and, still holding the club, hobbled back to Dr. Corbus's struggling body.

  As if he were in a golf tournament, Ed swung the club and hit Dr. Corbus's head with an ugly sound ... once, twice ... three times ... a thick, wet, clunking sound ... three times.

  Once he realized that Dr. Corbus was not moving, Ed stopped. Blood and hair clung to the end of the golf club.

  He dropped the club, leaned down, and removed the pager from Corbus's belt, slipping it safely into the inside breast pocket of his suitcoat.

  Then, after a moment of standing over Dr. Corbus, still and silent, he vomited unexpectedly and collapsed on the grass, the pain in his leg and shoulder overwhelming him ...

  EPILOGUE

  Reactions, Repercussions,

  and Recovery

  1

  Bent opened his eyes to complete whiteness above him. Clean, pure whiteness. For a moment he thought he was dead. It took a while for him to realize he was in a hospital bed, staring up at the white ceiling.

  He wasn't sure if his grogginess was from everything that had happened to him, or if perhaps he'd been given some drugs, some kind of painkiller, maybe, for the ... for his ... injuries.

  Bent realized something suddenly, something that cut through the thick fog in his head and startled him to alertness.

  He had his fingers. All of them, all ten, bandaged but there on his hands. He could feel them, even tried to move them slightly within their wrappings, but the pain was too great. That didn't matter. It was the most wonderful pain he'd ever felt, because they were there, his fingers, still attached to his hands. Had he dreamed everything? Hallucinated the torture he'd gone through?

  Bent lifted his head slowly, heavily, and looked down at his hands resting at his sides on top of the blanket. His vision was slightly blurred, but he could see them, could see the white bandages, the —

  His elation drained from him like blood from a severed artery. He dropped his head back down on the pillow.

  They weren't there, of course. Oh, he could feel them, all right, but he'd heard plenty of stories about amputees still feeling their missing limbs to know what that was: a physical memory, a ghost, a taunting phantom.

  Only the thumb and forefinger of his left hand remained, just as before.

  He realized that tears were dribbling over his temples from the corners of his eyes. He was too weak to actually cry, to let the sobs roll up from his chest, from his gut. But he couldn't control the tears.

  Well, he thought, at least it'll be a hell of a lot easier to resist the temptation to pick up a bottle.

  A young, cheerful nurse came into the room — a little too cheerful for Bent's tastes — made sure he was comfortable and said the doctor would be happy to learn that Bent was conscious and would probably be in soon. At least she didn't ask Bent how he felt; if she had, he would have been tempted to bite her.

  On her way out, she stopped in the doorway and spoke quietly to someone.

  Bent closed his eyes again, but couldn't help hearing the deep voice that responded to the nurse, the deep, wet, crying voice that spoke so quietly, so tremulously.

  "Ethan?" Bent croaked, opening his eyes. "Zat you out there?"

  "No, really," the nurse whispered, "he shouldn't be upset. Maybe if you just waited until you're — "

  "Let him in," Bent said, as firmly as he could.

  The nurse sighed and left.

  Ethan shuffled into the room slowly as Bent lifted his head again and saw the big man wiping tears from his puffy eyes.

  "What, Ethan? Wha's wrong?"

  The pastor did not reply. He went to Bent's bedside and put his hands on the railing, trying to smile down at him.

  "Ethan? What is it? Wha'smatter? Is it Samuel?"

  "He's ... in surgery."

  "Surgery? How bad?"

  "They're repairing the, uh ... the duh-damage that was, uh, done to him in that, that ... place."

  "I'm sorry, Ethan. Really. I hope it, y'know ... goes well."

  "Thank you, Bent. And you?"

  Bent let his head fall back onto the pillow with a sigh. "Don't ask. By the way, where am I?"

  "Cedar-Sinai."

  "Oooh, pricey." He chuckled, and it sounded like cellophane crackling. "Oh, well, I'll just tell 'em to bill the Inquisitor. How about the others, Ethan?"

  "Well ... Ed and Doc, the two men who got me into the mansion ... they're here, too. They've both been hurt, but not seriously. They'll be fine. I'm afraid that Coll's, um, his lady friend — "

  "Deanna?"

  Ethan nodded. "She didn't make it to the hospital. The girl, Lacey, is in custody, and Lieutenant Shockley is keeping a close eye on her. The police are trying to find out how to contact her parents, but she refuses to identify them."

  "Hm. Well, we don't know how she got there, what her circum
stances were. Maybe she has good reason."

  "Very possible. Lieutenant Shockley is also handling the press, since none of us are really up to talking to them."

  "The press, huh?"

  "Oh, yes. I've never seen anything like it, Bent. It's like somebody threw a side of beef into a pool of piranha. The hospital's full of them. But they're being kept off this floor, thank god. I don't know if I could take it. I just don't know if I — "

  His words caught in his throat and both hands clutched the bed's railing hard and began to shake so much that the railing rattled with a metallic jitter. His head fell forward, then his body seemed to betray him and he went to his knees beside the bed, pressing his forehead to the top bar of the railing. A sob rose from inside him, like an underwater explosion bursting to the surface and breaking it with a bulbous splash.

  Bent instinctively lifted his right hand to put it over one of Ethan's, but stopped when the pain hit ... and when he remembered that it really wasn't a hand anymore.

  "Ethan, what ... please, Ethan, tell me, what is it?"

  Ethan lifted his head and his writhing face showed the struggle that was necessary to get the words out. "Loraina's duh ... d-dead."

  "Oh, my god, Ethan, how?" Bent fought to sit up, but failed and simply lay there, wanting helplessly to do something to comfort the pastor.

  "Apparently, they found out ... well, I guess Coll said something that sent them there and ... she was shot. Three times. In the head. I ... I talked to her sister a little while ago. She came in from San Jose as soon as she heard, and she told me, and now ... oh, dear lord."

  "What about your little girl?"

  "Anice is fine. Loraina got her out of the house in time. And Loraina's sister is taking care of her now. But I-I'm ... I'm, uh ... oh, lord, what'm I gonna do, Bent, what'm I gonna do?" His voice rose with each word, threatening to become a loud wail, but then stopped.

  Tears returned to Bent's eyes. "I'm so sorry, Ethan. I'm sorry I can't ... hold your hand right now, or ... I'm sorry we screwed up and Coll talked. I don't know what they did to him exactly, but it must have been horrible, because I knew him for a long time, and I know he'd never — "