The Masked Family

by Robert T. Jeschonek

  "You sounded like you were dying," said Baron.

  "BAROOO!" said Pretzel.

  "It felt like I was," said Paisley. "The baby started kicking, and then it was like, this thing inside me...was sucking the life out of me."

  "So you're eight and a half months pregnant, and you're afraid of having a baby." Celeste couldn't keep the irritation out of her voice. On the one hand, she felt sorry for Paisley and knew the problem she described was just as serious as a physical complication.

  On the other hand, Paisley had almost gotten all of them killed just now.

  "How long have you had this?" said Baron.

  Paisley sniffled. "Eight and a half months, I guess."

  Celeste sat for a moment, staring at the dashboard, trying to get her bearings. Her heart was only now starting to slow its pounding as the crisis-triggered adrenaline faded from her system.

  What a day.

  "Okay, Paisley," she said, opening the door beside her. "Let's switch places. I'm gonna drive for a while."

  Paisley frowned like she didn't care for the idea, but then she went along with it. Moments later, the Toyota was back on the road with Celeste at the wheel and Paisley on the passenger side.

  "Are your panic attacks usually that bad?" said Baron, sitting back at ease for a change. The big wrestling match to keep Pretzel from bounding into the front seat was over, at least for now. It had left his immaculate newscaster's clothes and sandy brown hair in disarray, though.

  "Not always," said Paisley. "But just because it doesn't look like I'm having one doesn't mean I'm not having one."

  "You've lost me," said Baron.

  "I mean the panic is always there." Paisley's voice still shivered with tension. "Even when I'm not screaming like a maniac. And the farther along my pregnancy's gone...the harder it's gotten to hold on."

  Celeste thought for a moment, trying to decide the best way to phrase the next question, or if she should even ask it at all.

  "Paisley?" she said finally. "If the tocophobia was so bad for so long, why did you go through with this?" Celeste looked across the cabin, but Paisley didn't meet her gaze. "Why not have an abortion?"

  Paisley laughed, but it wasn't a good laugh. "Why do you think Mitch had me under house arrest for the last eight and a half months?"

  Celeste jumped.

  Now that she heard Paisley say it, she was surprised she hadn't realized it sooner. The pieces had been right there in front of her: Paisley was eight and a half months pregnant, and Mitch had held her captive for the past eight and a half months.

  Holy shit. Holy shit.

  "You mean he...locked you up," said Celeste, "to keep you from getting an abortion?"

  "Yeah," said Paisley. "Then you wonder why I'm losing my mind."

  "Unbelievable," said Baron. "Un-fucking-believable."

  Nobody said anything for a long moment after that.

  Celeste felt lousy for having been irritated with Paisley. She felt worse for not realizing that something had been wrong for all those months...and then, today, in her rush to find Cary, for not digging deeper when Paisley had first mentioned her ordeal.

  "Too bad you guys weren't there with me." Paisley smiled nervously. "It would've been like old times."

  Celeste winced. Memories she'd rather not have in her head at all came crawling up out of the darkness.

  They were memories of one of the worst nights of her life. One of the worst nights of their lives.

  These memories were the reason that Celeste felt especially bad for not coming to Paisley's rescue months ago. She knew they were the reason Paisley's imprisonment had been especially terrible for her.

  "I've been wondering." Paisley fished a tissue from her purse and blew her nose. "Why do psychotic freaks feel compelled to hold me prisoner?"

  Again, no one said anything for a long moment. The only sounds in the cabin were the hum of the engine and the jingle of Pretzel's collar in the back seat. He seemed to be getting active again.

  Finally, Baron spoke up. "Could we stop soon? I think Pretzel needs a bathroom break."

  "Sure," said Celeste. As she drove, she felt herself slipping inexorably into the past, revisiting the terrible moments that had danced around distant, flickering fires in the rain forest of her memory for all these decades.

  They were monsters. The moments were monsters, and she couldn't look away from them.

  "I guess it could have been worse," said Paisley. She was starting to sound brassy again. "At least this time, no one actually threatened to kill me."

  *****

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Johnstown, Pennsylvania, 1977

  Seconds after all the lights went out in the house, Cary heard Paisley's screams from downstairs. They were like the screams of a girl in a horror movie, loud and desperate and out of control, almost too shrill to be real.

  Along with the screams, Cary heard thumping and bumping and crashing, the sounds of a struggle. Feeling his way through the bathroom, he flung open the door and stepped into the hallway.

  From the kitchen, he heard the sound of glass shattering. A door slammed open--the basement door, he thought--and there was more scuffling before it slammed shut again.

  Paisley's next screams were muffled but still inside the house. She'd been dragged into the basement.

  "Oh my God," said Celeste. She and Baron had stepped out of the bedroom and stood behind Cary in the hallway. "What happened?"

  Cary turned to her with eyes wide as manhole covers. "She's in the basement."

  "Three guesses who took her." Baron threw open the door to Grogan's bedroom--which used to be his bedroom--and looked inside. "Gee, what a surprise. Grogan's not in his room."

  Cary flipped the light switch on the hallway wall, but nothing happened. "There's no power."

  Paisley screamed again.

  "We need to help her right now," said Celeste.

  Cary heard rummaging noises coming from Grogan's room. "Damnit!" Baron stomped out and hurtled straight into the kids' bedroom across the hall. More rummaging noises. "That jerk! He took both flashlights we had up here!"

  Feeling her way along the wall, Celeste headed for the stairs. "Come on!"

  Paisley screamed again.

  "We have to get down there!"

  *****

  It had all started less than an hour ago, around eleven o'clock at night. That was when Grogan had been put in charge of the Nuclear Family kids.

  Cary, Baron, Paisley, and Celeste had been asleep in their room when E.Q. had eased open the door. "Hey," he'd said. "Hey, wake up."

  One by one, the kids had stirred. Cary had rolled over on his sleeping bag on the floor and squinted up at the dark figure framed in the light from the hallway.

  E.Q.'s voice had been tense. He hadn't been wearing his glasses, and his curly brown hair had been ruffled. "I have to take your mother to the hospital. There's been an accident."

  "What kind of accident?" Celeste had said.

  "I don't know what time we'll be home." E.Q. had looked down the hall, then back in the bedroom. "Grogan's in charge till then."

  "We're fine on our own," Baron had said.

  "Grogan's the oldest," E.Q. had said firmly. "Now look, I've got to go."

  "Will Mom be okay?" Paisley had said.

  "Oh, yeah," E.Q. had said, but Cary hadn't thought he sounded convincing. "Remember, listen to Grogan."

  And then, E.Q. had shut the door.

  As his footsteps had hurried down the stairs, the kids had all looked at each other.

  "What do you think happened?" Celeste had whispered.

  Paisley had slipped out from under the covers and sat on the edge of her bed. She had given her bobbed black hair a shake, then flicked it with the back of her hand. "Dad seemed pretty worried."

  Baron had gotten up from his cot and switched on the ceiling light. "I didn't hear any loud noises. Nothing that woke me up."

  "I'm going to get a glass of water." Paisley had slid off th
e bed then, opened the door, and closed it behind her.

  "We should've gone with Dad," Celeste had said. "What if we never see Mom alive again?"

  "I wish I knew what happened." Baron had cracked his knuckles and paced, marching through what little open space was left in the room between the two beds, the cot, and the sleeping bag.

  Just then, Cary had heard the family car rumble out of the driveway and tear off down the street. "What if he did something?" he'd said, pointing in the direction of Grogan's room. "What if he hurt her?"

  Everyone had looked at the door at the same time.

  "Now he's in charge," Celeste had whispered.

  "I wouldn't put it past him," Baron had said. "I wouldn't put anything past him."

  Moments later, after Cary had walked to the bathroom, the lights had gone out. Seconds after that, Paisley had started screaming.

  *****

  "Come on!" One hand on the wall, Celeste lowered a foot to the first stair. "We have to get down there!"

  Before Celeste could go any further, Baron put a hand on her shoulder. "Wait," he said. "I'll go first."

  Somewhere down below, Paisley screamed again.

  "Be careful," said Celeste.

  Slowly, Baron eased himself down the stairs, moving toward the pitch blackness at the bottom. Celeste waited until he'd gotten halfway down, feeling his way along the opposite wall, before she continued her own descent.

  Cary was just about to follow when he thought he saw the darkness move.

  In the sea of black that filled the living room at the base of the stairs, something seemed to shift. Cary focused on the spot, staring so hard that pips of light fizzed in front of his eyes.

  He didn't see more movement until it was too late.

  "Baron!" he said, about to warn his brother.

  Before he could finish, a black-clad figure leaped out of the darkness below and hauled Baron off the stairs.

  "Baron!" Cary heard the sounds of a struggle in the living room--voices grunting, bodies thumping, furniture crashing. There was a crack and a cry of pain from Baron, then the sound of a heavy object falling to the floor.

  Then, Cary heard something being dragged across the living room. Something or someone being dragged.

  Each beat of Cary's heart was like an explosion. Frozen with fear, he stayed at the top of the stairs and peered into the wedge of darkened living room that was visible from there.

  At the far end of the wedge, he glimpsed Baron in his pale blue pajamas. He was on his back, head sagging forward, someone else's black-gloves hands holding him under his armpits. A black-clad figure was pulling him over the carpet toward the kitchen, sliding him quickly through the shadows.

  Then, they were gone.

  Cary heard footsteps and more sliding in the kitchen, faster than before. The basement door opened, and he heard repeated thumping, as of someone's feet dropping from step to step as he was hauled downstairs headfirst.

  Suddenly, Cary heard Paisley's voice from the basement. "Baron! No! Please, God, no!"

  Her next screams were louder than ever...at least until someone stomped up the basement stairs and slammed the door shut.

  Celeste, who stood midway down the stairs, looked back at Cary. "What's Grogan doing to them?"

  Cary thought he knew, but he was too terrified to say.

  Grogan had already told them what he was going to do. He'd told them the day they'd ambushed him in the back yard.

  You get to watch, he'd told Baron. While I k-kill your retarded brother and sisters. I'll kill you l-last so you'll get to watch them d-d-die.

  So this was it. This was the night when he'd kill the Nuclear Family.

  He must've planned it carefully, Cary realized. He'd set up Lydia's accident so he'd be left alone with the kids. He'd switched off the power to catch the kids off guard. Now, he was taking them to the basement one by one.

  That was the only way he could have a chance of defeating the Nuclear Family: splitting them up and coming after them one by one.

  "We have to stay together." Cary dropped his voice to a whisper just loud enough for Celeste to hear. "And we need a plan."

  "Here's a plan! Let's call the police!" Celeste sounded like she was on the verge of panic. That really got to Cary, because next to Baron, she was always the most level-headed of the Beacon brothers and sisters.

  "He'll just turn it around on us and make it look like it's our fault. That's what Blacksheep always does."

  "Then what do you think we should do?" said Celeste.

  "It's still two against one," said Cary. "We can still beat him! Get some frying pans from the kitchen and go down to the basement and knock him out!"

  "You know we're not playing Nuclear Family right now, don't you?" Celeste seemed angry on top of panicky. "He might already be hurting them down there."

  "I know, I know," said Cary.

  "We need the police." Celeste turned and started down the rest of the stairs. "I'm calling them."

  "No, don't!" said Cary.

  Celeste stopped and looked back at him over her shoulder. "Cary, you know what Grogan's like. You know what he could do. We need help."

  Cary took one step down the stairs. Working with his brother and sisters in broad daylight, he hadn't been afraid to take on Grogan Blacksheep...but tonight was different.

  The lights were out. E.Q. and Lydia wouldn't be home until who knew when. Grogan's murderous threats were fresh in his mind.

  And his brother and sisters were being whisked off into the darkness one by one.

  Cary was terrified.

  "Wait for me," he said as Celeste reached the bottom of the stairs. "Don't leave me up here."

  Celeste pointed toward the kitchen. "I'll meet you at the phone."

  Cary knew it wasn't a big deal, that the phone was just around the corner on the kitchen wall, but his heart went crazy. "No, wait!" he said, going down another stair and another after that. "Stay together!"

  But Celeste kept moving. Feeling her way along the wall, she turned the corner into the kitchen, her long, golden hair and pink pajamas disappearing from view.

  Cary got down three more stairs before he heard another scream and froze.

  This time, the scream wasn't coming from the basement.

  It was coming from the kitchen, where Celeste had gone.

  "Celeste!" Cary tried to force himself to hurry down the rest of the stairs and into the kitchen to help her, but he was locked in place.

  Celeste screamed again. Cary heard the sounds of a struggle--kicking and smacking and banging and thudding--and then the noise died down.

  He got her. Blacksheep got her. Oh my God.

  Again, Cary tried to force himself down the stairs...and this time, he almost made it. He finally got up enough courage to make the charge and fight for his sister.

  That's when the black-clad figure lunged into view at the bottom of the stairs.

  He wore black from head to toe and looked out from the eyeholes of a black ski mask. Celeste slumped in front of him, a white sock stuffed in her mouth. He held her with one arm across her throat and the other restraining her arms behind her back.

  Without thinking, Cary scrambled backwards to the top of the stairs.

  "I changedmy m-mind, asshole."

  Though Cary had known all along it had to be Grogan under the mask, he was surprised to hear his voice. The mask and the darkness and the fear had made Grogan seem like someone different, someone supernatural.

  "B-Baron was gonna b-be thelastone to d-die," said Grogan. "But n-now it's gonnabe y-you. Sinceyou t-turned downmyoffer, you g-g-get towatchyour b-brotherandsisters d-die beforeI k-kill you."

  "No, please!" said Cary. "I'll do whatever you want! Just don't hurt them!"

  "T-Toolate, asshole," said Grogan. "As usual, you c-can't helpanyone. You c-can't save anyone, y-you sh-shitty excusefora s-super-zero."

  Then, Grogan slipped back around the corner. He laughed his head off as he hauled Celeste into the bas
ement.

  And Cary was left alone in the darkness.

  *****

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Puerto Peñasco, Mexico, 2006

  It took every ounce of strength that Cary possessed to keep himself from running over and snatching up the kids right at that instant.

  It was the first he'd seen them since before Crystal had whisked them away from the trailer in West Virginia. The memory of them was the only thing that had kept him going through the long and grueling trip down to Mexico.

  Now, they were only a few yards away, looking just as he'd remembered. Glo was a skinny ten-year-old with a long face and shoulder-length silky brown hair. Six-year-old Late was already almost as tall as Glo, with knobby knees and a head of loose, black curls.

  They were his kids, all right. All he had to do was call out, and they'd come running to him.

  But he knew he had to continue to hide behind his stuck-on beard and sombrero and wait for a better time.

  Cary lay on a blanket on the beach, hands folded on his stomach, head propped on a rolled-up jacket, and pretended to be asleep. His face was hidden by the broad brim of the sombrero tipped down over it and the bushy Santa Claus beard glued to his cheeks and chin. He also wore a blue tie-dyed t-shirt, ragged denim cutoffs, and tattered huaraches. El Yucatango had supplied the disguise and said Cary would blend right in...but Cary had his doubts. Since arriving in town, he hadn't seen a single hippie vagrant wearing a sombrero on the beach.

  Still, the disguise seemed to be working. Crystal and the kids hadn't looked his way for more than a fleeting instant. Maybe they were just too busy gathering shells in the surf.

  Not that they looked like they were enjoying it at all. If anything, as they trudged along in the first pink glow before dawn, they looked miserable. Neither Glo nor Late said a single word or smiled or splashed or did a quick step around a scuttling crab. They just kept squatting and plucking shells from the wet sand, then rinsing them in the surf and dropping them into galvanized steel buckets in the bed of a rusty wagon.