Cruel Devices

by George Wright Padgett

  “Well, actually, that was for Doyle. I have something to ask for me. That was his turn. This one’s mine.”

  Gavin chuckled as he took the Visconti pen back out of his breast pocket. “You are a shrewd girl. What may I sign for you?”

  “Oh, nothing like that… just a question for you.”

  Gavin braced himself for the most inane question one could ask a writer: Where do you get your ideas from? Just when things were going so well between the two of them.

  He was relieved when she didn’t. She asked something of relevance. “What makes good horror? The fear of the unknown?”

  Gavin repeated the words as a professor would present a rhetorical question to an auditorium of students. “What makes for a good horror story?”

  He let the words dissolve in the air like vapor. After a few seconds, he conceded, “Well, fear of the unknown can be a contributor, but think about it—you don’t know what the weather will be like next Thursday, but that doesn’t scare you. Or who’ll win the World Series, but you’re not afraid about it. Are we the only intelligent life in the universe? I don’t know, but it doesn’t frighten me that I don’t know.”

  He tucked his pen snugly back into his pocket. “The point is, there are millions upon millions of things that are unknown to us, but that’s not where the fear stems from. The unknown can contribute to horror, but the kicker is control. That’s where it’s at.”

  Gavin poked at the table with a stubby index finger, emphasizing his point. “Removal of control is the main thing. Whether they realize it or not, most people are afraid of not being in control. This is more powerful than the fear of the unknown or even the fear of dying.”

  The line of people behind Eunice moved forward slightly, encroaching on her space. The air was electric. About a dozen hands extended, holding cell phones—undoubtedly recording the moment to post later on YouTube or other social media.

  He decided to play along. They had cast him in this role of Horror Messiah. He’d act the part, turning their literary water into wine or, even better, turning it into blood. It was time to activate that good ‘ol Gavin Curtis charm. With a million-dollar smile, he decided to crank the charm up to full tilt boogie.

  He looked beyond Eunice into the growing sea of cell phone cameras and spoke boldly. “Think about it. If I wrote a short story of a guy facing a firing line in the morning—a character facing certain death—that is not as scary as someone who is facing the prospect of being used by or taken over by a malevolent entity like a ghost or whatever. Stevenson recognized this and put Mr. Hyde in control of Dr. Jekyll.”

  Gavin stood from his chair, and the cell phone cameras followed his ascent. “There’s a trend these days to put a character in a situation where they have no control, because a maniac killer is in charge of their outcome. We, as humans, have something basic at our core that makes us crave control any way we can get it.”

  A female voice from the crowd hollered out, “But what about the occult? You know, the devil?”

  Gavin scanned the faces to place the voice with the person. When he couldn’t, he answered in a matter-of-fact tone of voice, “Still, control… it’s still all about control.”

  He moved out from behind the table as he continued. “See, with God, there’s free will and all that—not very scary.”

  Gavin reached the other side of the table and leaned against its edge with his arms crossed. “Now, as for the devil and his minions, those guys are all about control. Controlling the human race and all, that’s what they do, or at least try to do. Think back to the stories in your Sunday school class.”

  A wave of repressed laughter rippled through the crowd. They had abandoned the line and now formed a huddle.

  “I know, I know, but hear me out on this, ya bunch of heathens!”

  A catcall whistle erupted from the mob, inspiring more laughter, this time unrestrained.

  Gavin put a bulky arm around Eunice’s small, over-perfumed frame. The frail woman bounced with joy as if the two of them had just been crowned Homecoming King and Queen. It felt good to work a crowd again.

  Yeah, it’s no wonder they love me.

  Gavin’s handler—the portly store manager—buzzed around, snapping pictures of the spectacle that his little book signing had become.

  Gavin released Eunice and scooted into a sitting position back on the table. “Here’s the thing: control is just an illusion that we placate ourselves with. We choose to believe we have control, but that’s a fantasy of the mind. What a good horror writer does is simply pull the curtain back to give us a peek inside. Removing control results in horror, and the more controlling a character is before the writer strips them of it, the more horrific the fall.”

  Removing his bifocals, he wiped his brow with the back of his free hand. “It really doesn’t matter if the character dies or what the outcome of the plot is. The reader has to confront their own lack of control in the universe, even if it’s only on some subconscious level. What horror writers do is expose this through a story.”

  A pouty-looking Goth girl of about twenty nudged her way through the horde. Gavin was taken aback by the abundance of piercings on her face. The human-voodoo-doll woman asked, “But can’t the reader put down the book? Just close it up and tuck it away?”

  Gavin regained his composure and looked over the top of the girl’s head and addressed the audience. “Ah, now you’re getting ahead of me. Yes, that’s exactly it. They’re scared, but they’re in control of it. The reader turns the valve that lets the fear in at a manageable rate of speed.

  “They tuck the book back into the nightstand beside the bed, and everything is okay again. They’ll outlive whatever happens in the book. They come out victorious even if the protagonist of the story gets themselves snuffed out. The reader returns to the cocoon of this false sense of control, and everybody continues on their merry way.”

  A voice with a Vietnamese accent rang out from the crowd. “What about a horror master like you, Mr. Curtis? What scares you?”

  The group noisily echoed the question.

  Gavin tried, for a few seconds, to locate the originator of the question, but he couldn’t. There were simply too many people.

  “I’m afraid of”—he paused for dramatic effect—”not being able to find my car keys!”

  In one swift move, he pulled the Crescent Car Rentals key ring from his jacket pocket to an outburst of applause. He had them eating out of his hand, just like charming the horns off the devil.

  In between guffaws, the Goth girl made an unexpected joke. “So you can control your car.”

  This inspired a few more chuckles from the room and an honest laugh from Gavin himself as he jingled the keys with the ridiculous yellow moon attachment. “Yes, I guess so. Now you’re getting the hang of it. And now, before we get back to signing books—”

  Before he could finish, a fire alarm shrieked. Seconds later, water spewed from the overhead sprinkler system.

  The show was over. It was time to go.

  Pandemonium ensued throughout the bookstore. Gavin’s portly handler abandoned him, scurrying around with plastic sheeting to cover product. Playful screams and laughter echoed throughout the cavernous area as customers stampeded out of the store like spooked cattle. Store clerks yelled instructions back and forth to each other like ship pursers panicking aboard a sinking vessel. In contrast, Gavin calmly proceeded to the front exit, his head covered with his sports coat. The cold droplets of water hitting grey tarps sounded like an endless round of applause.

  Even though the crew moved at lightning speed, Gavin suspected there would still be thousands of dollars’ worth of damage. He resisted the temptation to uncover the end caps that contained his latest novel, Blood Clot. He suspected that if the books were damaged, the store would just order another lot, inflating the sales of that drivel.

  Once safely outside, he removed his jacket from over his head. The hot July sun felt good for a change.

  Some of the store’
s patrons had already made their way to their cars, only to find themselves in an equally chaotic exodus from the parking lot. Others took refuge in the neighboring Jamba Juice outlet to the left of the bookstore. The line poured out the door of the franchise. It was going to be a good day for their sales. Gavin wondered if the Jamba Juice manager had tripped the alarm to get all of that business. Then he smiled at his own cynicism.

  The rest of the crowd—the majority of the customers—looked back at the bookstore from the sidewalk like schoolchildren anticipating the recess bell.

  On the curb next to Gavin was a young, muscular black man whom he guessed to be in his mid-twenties. He wore a black Buy-the-Book apron.

  “Shouldn’t you be in there?” Gavin asked, pointing at the doorway.

  “Nah, I’m only here for today… to stock. My store is 719. They had me here to help with the extra business today.”

  “Extra business?” Gavin asked. He was intrigued that the clerk hadn’t looked at him yet. The man stared forward at the chaos inside.

  “Well, yeah, ‘cause of you,” the clerk said as if stating a universally known fact.

  “Oh, yeah. Sorry, I guess.”

  “It’s cool, it’s cool,” the man said as he shifted his gaze to his apron pocket. He produced a pack of cigarettes and began to light one. “I don’t mind. I get time-and-a-half.” He paused for some short puffs to get the cigarette going. “Yeah, time-and-a-half, baby.”

  A few delinquent customers exited the building, including an older man and woman who were not amused by the ordeal, as demonstrated by a stream of swear words.

  “You got another one of those?” Gavin asked, pointing to the cigarette.

  The man paused and then reached back into his apron. “Sure. Here, you can have the rest.”

  “Thanks,” Gavin said, counting the three Marlboro Reds remaining in the pack. He balanced one of them on his lips and took out the Zippo also in the pack.

  “Sure. I need to keep the lighter, though.”

  “Huh? Oh, yeah, okay.” Gavin gave the Zippo back to him.

  Gavin closed his eyes and inhaled the smoke deeply into his lungs. He exhaled a few seconds later, relishing the moment. He opened his eyes and asked, “Hey, can I sign something for you… you know, for these?”

  The young man took another long drag and looked back at the doorway. “Nah, it’s cool.”

  Blaring sirens announced the arrival of a slick, red fire truck. The party was in full swing now.

  “Where are the rest of the workers?” Gavin asked. “Shouldn’t they be out by now?”

  “Don’t worry, I doubt there’s any fire. Just some jackhole pulled the fire alarm is my guess.”

  Gavin nodded, thinking how grateful he was to be away from the signing table. At least this guy seemed authentic, not just some wide-eyed fanboy.

  Four firefighters in cumbersome gear shuffled into the bookstore, looking like they hoped to find a battle they probably wouldn’t.

  Gavin studied the other man, who was exhaling a steady stream of smoke. “You’re completely dry. How are you completely dry? A stocker would have been in the back of the store.”

  A sly grin escaped from him. “Yeah, well, about that—”

  “You’re the only one out here who doesn’t look wet. If I had to guess about who pulled the alarm, I’d have to say—”

  “Smoke break,” he cut in. “I needed a smoke break. That and the fact that old man Hastings fired my cousin a couple months ago.”

  “Hastings? Bossy little Danny DeVito guy with the comb-over? Is that the manager?”

  “That’d be the one, in the flesh. Sorry if I messed up your party thing in there.”

  “Hardly what I’d call a party,” Gavin said with a snort. “Actually, I’m grateful.”

  “Well, if that’s true, if you don’t want to hang out with your loyal subjects, you should head through that alley there.”

  “Why?” Gavin asked. “What do you mean?”

  The clerk pointed at the people who were starting to amass and move toward them. “They look like a zombie horde from one of your books.”

  “Vampires.” Gavin sighed as he took a step behind him. “I write vampires.”

  “Whatever. But they’ve already seen you. Make you a deal: you don’t narc me out on the fire alarm thing, and I’ll buy you some time here.”

  “It’s a deal.”

  “Cool. Like I said, you should cut through the alley over there. Behind the bookstore is a loading dock with pallets. Hide back there, and I’ll come get you when this mob scene has died down.”

  Then the clerk shouted to the crowd, “If I can have your attention, please! Buy-the-Book apologizes for the inconvenience, but Mr. Cutter—”

  “Curtis,” Gavin interjected from behind him.

  “Mr. Curtis will be heading to the Buy-the-Book location at the intersection of Hearst and Glenbrook.” The man went on with the authority of a traffic cop during rush hour. “Look for the red brick building about six miles east of here. Hearst and Glenbrook store at twelve fifteen. Don’t be late.”

  Wow, this kid had a lot of moxy.

  He turned to Gavin. “What are you still doing here? Go, dude. Go hide. I’ll get ya in a few minutes.”

  Gavin was speechless. The crowd hurried to their cars like roaches running across the kitchen floor when a light is clicked on.

  Gavin shook his head and laughed in disbelief. “Those people are going to be pissed when they find out.”

  The younger man didn’t acknowledge that. Instead, he pushed Gavin firmly in the direction of the alley. “Remember, we have a deal.”

  “Yeah, thanks. And thanks for the cigarettes.”

  “Whatever. Five minutes. Don’t come back in until I get you at the pallets.” Gavin nodded and headed down the alley.

  Two

  AFTER A LOT LONGER THAN FIVE MINUTES, Gavin became restless. There was no sign of his getaway accomplice. His mind wandered through its familiar paths, ending up where it always did—Josephine. He knew that he had been a jerk to her on the phone, but he knew she’d forgive him. She had always forgiven him—almost always.

  As the July sun beat down, Gavin scrolled through listings in his phone. He stopped at the old thumb-sized picture of her that served as her dialing icon.

  How long would it take her to discover that he’d ducked out? He debated calling her and decided against it. If she found out that they’d had to exit the store, she’d arrange for a signing table to be set up on the curb or in the parking lot or something. Knowing her, she’d probably give away a bunch of free books or find a way to make Damien Marksman towels to dry everybody off to make it up to all of them.

  The tiny digital image of her gleamed a million-dollar smile back at him as if she already knew somehow. Even worse, if he told her that he had hung out with the guy who’d tripped the alarm, she’d suspect that Gavin had put him up to it. The fact that he was hiding behind pallets at the back of the store wouldn’t help his case either.

  He slid her image downward with his thumb. The directory displayed the entry above hers: Monica Garcia. It figured that Monica’s listing would come directly before Josephine’s. He tried to remember the last time he spoke to the woman.

  Six months ago? Maybe nine?

  She had finally stopped calling when she had left Newport Beach and returned to college.

  He’d done his best to keep the news of the divorce from her for fear it would start everything back up again. While Josephine had moved on, Gavin wasn’t ready to start up a life with Monica Garcia or anyone else.

  Even so, he hadn’t deleted the number of his former mistress, maybe to spite Josephine, or maybe because he genuinely regretted how the two-month affair had turned out for the girl. She wasn’t to blame, after all. He had propositioned her.

  Though he’d never said it, he regretted hurting Jo. She had deserved better. He had been stupid.

  He paced beside a long, blue trash compactor, the stench of it
bringing him back to the present. He grumbled to himself, “How can that smell be so bad? It’s only boxes and packing supplies.” Then he remembered the bookstore’s coffeehouse. The combination of milk, creamer, and other additives with the July heat made for a noxiously sour concoction.

  Gavin inadvertently scraped his foot across the flattened carcass of a frog. He jumped back at the realization and fitfully shuffled the stiffened remains to the side. A disturbing childhood memory of a botched frog dissection flooded his mind. “Jeez, this is so gross back here.”

  Gavin stared back at the icon of Monica on his phone. Tapping a series of commands on the device, he deleted her entry forever and tucked the phone away. He sighed and resumed pacing. He considered peeking around the corner to see if everyone had cleared out but decided not to chance it.

  Where was the stocker? Were there people still waiting out there? Maybe Hastings figured out that the stocker had tripped the alarm. It could be hours before he came back. Maybe he had forgotten him. That was entirely possible, maybe even likely. “Mr. Cutter”—sheesh!

  When he could no longer stand it, Gavin snatched his damp jacket off the waist-high stack of pallets and shuffled down the narrow, fenced-in pathway in search of a book of matches or a lighter for the two remaining cigarettes.

  Why didn’t he offer to buy the lighter from the boy?

  Before twenty minutes ago, it had been nearly two months since Gavin had smoked. His on-again, off-again battle with nicotine had been a fixture of his personality since he was a sophomore in college. It was the only thing in his adult life that he felt powerless over. He hated it.

  Even so, when the cool sensation of grey ribbons of smoke swirled down in his lungs, it was intoxicating—an ecstasy that couldn’t be negotiated with. When he did give in, it was always as delicious as the lips of a siren nymph, the bittersweet taste of a million broken promises to himself. He was prepared to break that promise two more times today if only he could find a light.

  Behind the bookstore, there was a rusted-out maintenance truck for the strip center. As he came closer, he peered through the windshield at the dashboard. There was a mound of empty fast-food containers, a newspaper, and several plastic Starbucks cups, but no lighter in view.