Crucifax (13 page)

"Okay."

Mace held her head gently between his hands and looked into her eyes.

"I want you to know that you're welcome here any time, Mallory. If you need a friend, I'm here. Okay?"

Mallory felt a lump rise in her throat—

Just the grass.

—and had to fight back tears. His hands felt good on her head, safe, reassuring. His eyes glistened, too, as if he were struggling with tears. There was still a skeptical voice whispering within her, reminding her that she knew nothing of this man, that she had no reason to trust him or even consider trusting him.

But she didn't even trust her own voice, so she nodded silently.

Mace touched his lips to her forehead, then turned and went down the stairs. She watched him for a moment, liking the way he made her feel—

But those things down there…

—the way he seemed to accept her without reservation, so willingly, so warmly. She knew she would be back.

As Mallory continued up the stairs she heard Mace clap his hands once and say, "Okay, guys, how about a tour of the building? Let's go downstairs and I'll show you the other way in and out."

"Downstairs?" Kevin muttered.

"Yes. In the sub-basement." Mace chuckled. "The sewer…"

PART III

Crucifax Autumn

Thirteen

September 7-October 12

Seasons change with very little fanfare in Southern California. The Santa Ana winds lose their temper and blow away the stifling heat of summer, sweeping much of the smog from the sky replacing it with spotty clouds. Fashions change more noticeably than anything else. The cheerful ice-cream colors of summer give way to darker earth tones, but perpetually tanned flesh is still visible: midriffs, legs, bare arms and shoulders. Summer seems to relax, but it never quite goes away.

This particular year, however, was different. Through the month of September, summer and autumn engaged in a game
of
tug-of-war over the San Fernando Valley.

There were days when the sun shone, unhindered even by smog, from aqua-blue skies. On other days, clouds that completely ignored the Los Angeles basin blanketed the Valley, their shadows occasionally cut by blades of sunlight that fell briefly in small pools amid the gloom. Twice, the clouds yielded a light sprinkle of rain.

At times the wind blew in fierce gusts, dry and cool, lifting skirts and mussing hair, skittering dry leaves and litter over the streets and sidewalks. Sometimes the air was still as death.

The local news story of the month was the mysterious death of North Hollywood police officer Bill Grady. The only visible sign of injury had been some blood in his mouth. The autopsy revealed much more. The man's internal organs had been disconnected, rearranged, thrashed. His stomach had been torn open from the inside; and, as the coroner told the press, "his insides were stirred up like a pudding."

When the coroner reported that Grady's death had been caused by "insertion of an unidentified object into the abdomen by way of the throat," the story attracted national attention. The media, however, was not being told how much confusion was being caused by that unidentified object; despite the tremendous amount of damage it had done to the inside of Bill Grady's body, it had left no mark in his mouth or throat except for the clean loss of two upper front teeth.

The investigation was going nowhere, and most of Grady's former colleagues felt the crime would remain unsolved.

The funeral was a large one. Angry editorials were written in all of the Southern California newspapers.

With so much attention focused on the murder, few people noticed a small article that appeared in the back pages of the
Times
and the
Herald Examiner.
It was so brief that its apparent unimportance invited the reader's neglect.

The article stated that there had been a number of recent sightings of what appeared to be large rats roaming the streets in the vicinity of Laurel Canyon Boulevard and Whitley Avenue.

No one cared….

When Jeff got home on the night of September sixth, his stomach burning, his knees still weak, the phone was ringing. He answered quickly and was surprised to hear Mallory's calm, relaxed voice on the other end. He'd planned on calling someone, anyone, for help as soon as he got home, knowing that if Mallory wasn't hurt yet, she would be soon.

She was calling, she said, to tell him she was okay and would be home later.

He knew from her groggy voice that things were not as they should be. He wanted to ask what she'd done in that building, and if she'd seen the things that had chased him to the car, but he held back. If she knew he'd followed her, she'd be furious; worse, she'd be hurt, and whatever trust she had in him would be seriously damaged.

That night, and the nights that followed, his dreams were different than usual. Sometimes he awoke sweat-drenched and gasping, relieved to be in his bed rather than running down dark streets from squat black creatures with fiery golden eyes and snapping teeth. Other times, he dreamed of his sister spread-eagled in jet-black darkness, surrounded by those eyes; the dark creatures licked her flesh, flicking their tongues over her pebble-hard nipples as she cried out in pleasure, writhing and bucking against their fanged mouths.

Each time he woke, one thought was uppermost in his mind:
There's something wrong with me.

Jeff and Mallory saw one another over breakfast each morning but said very little. Mallory had become very quiet since school had started, since that night in that dark, fire-blackened building.

In the evenings when both of them were home, they usually studied in their own rooms for a while and came out for dinner. Their mother seldom ate an evening meal with them but cooked it before going to work. Jeff and Mallory no longer had their usual dinner table conversations. Mallory had taken to eating her dinner in front of
M*A*S*H
reruns. She did not ignore him; when he asked her if anything was wrong, she smiled and said no, that she was just tired.

But to Jeff Mallory seemed preoccupied, bothered by something rather than intentionally distancing herself from him. Jeff feared that if he questioned her further, she would cut herself off from him completely. So he remained silent, hoping she would open up without being prompted.

She never did.

One of the best things about the new school year was Jeff's assignment to a new counselor, Mr. Haskell. Their first meeting turned into a casual conversation about movies, music, and the rest of the faculty.

"Look out for Mrs. Carmody, the girls' P.E. teacher," Jeff told him. "She's a real barracuda, and everybody on campus is terrified of her."

"Thanks for the warning," he laughed, lowering his voice, "but remember, we never had this conversation. I get caught gossiping about the faculty with a student, I'm dog meat."

Haskell insisted Jeff call him J.R. and told him to drop by the office any time he wanted. Jeff felt he could talk to J.R. if he needed to. He even considered going to J.R. about Mallory, talking to him about her strange behavior, but decided against it, fearing J.R. might think him a nosy brother who meddled in his sister's life.

Jeff told himself again and again that he had to stop being so intrusive; the more he looked into Mallory's life, the more curious he became, and the more worried he became. Her odd behavior was a sign of something. She was different. Changing.

He realized that he wasn't as worried about her as he was afraid for her. That made him worry about himself, because he had no idea what there was to be afraid of….

Mallory was afraid, too, but she knew why.

She hadn't gone back to see Mace since that first night with Kevin. Most of that evening had become a hazy, dreamlike memory.

Except for those
things.

They remained vividly burned into her memory.

"What
are
those damned things, anyway?" she asked Kevin that night when he took her home.

"Pets. Like he said."

"But what
are
they?"

"I don't know. Rats, I guess. Lotsa people keep rats."

"They're not rats! You got a better look at them than I did. They're not rats, and you know it."

"Well, whatever they are, don't be afraid of them. They're kinda nice. Really."

But she
was
afraid of them.

Especially since they'd started following her.

The morning after her visit with Mace, she'd groggily awakened, rolled over, and heard something move beneath her bed. After the quiet movement came a soft, chittering squeak. She'd wanted to lean over the edge and look beneath the bed, but she knew instinctively what would be looking back at her from the dusty darkness. She didn't look.

She heard them in bushes, beneath cars, moving inside garbage cans, cautious and secretive, but restless.

One morning when she heard a rustling in her closet, she almost called Jeff in to see if he could hear it, too. But then he would start asking questions, wondering why she was so frightened, and if she didn't explain, he would become suspicious. Things had been good between them lately— quiet, but good—and she wanted to keep it that way. Perhaps the little chill that had developed between them was healthy and would give Jeff a chance to turn his attention elsewhere, maybe even to get himself a girlfriend, so he would get off her back.

Kevin, too, had changed. Since meeting Mace, Kevin had become so cheerful and pleasant that he almost seemed a different person. Yet there seemed to be an underlying malignancy to his upbeat attitude, as if he were smiling on the outside to hide something that was brewing within.

He was also attending most, if not all, of his classes because, he claimed, Mace said he should.

Kevin was constantly talking about Mace; Mace said this, Mace did that, Mace is going to get the band some work in October….

"Mace wants you to come back," he told her.

"I don't know, Kevin…."

"Jesus, Mallory, all the other girls come, and they love it. It's like a party every night. I thought you liked to watch us rehearse."

"I do, but I told you… I'm afraid of those things."

"You don't need to be."

"Kevin, this'll probably sound crazy, but… I think they're, like, following me. Those animals."

He pushed a hand through his thick black hair and laughed. "That's bullshit, Mallory."

"Okay, just forget I said it."

Maybe she would go back. Maybe in the light of the day it wouldn't be so bad; maybe if she didn't smoke any of Mace's killer grass, she would remain alert and see that his "pets" weren't so awful after all.

Then again, maybe not….

The building on the corner of Ventura and Whitley appeared empty and abandoned. Inside, however, there was life. Since Mace had introduced himself to the band, it had become their meeting place. They left their instruments there, and each day after school the guys took their girlfriends down into the pool room, where their instruments were assembled and waiting. Using the generator Mace had set up, they rehearsed—not loud enough to draw attentipn, but just loud enough to tremble the darkness inside.

The band's performance improved tremendously through the month of September, it became richer, darker, as if shaped by their surroundings. Mace's music, angry and cynical, seemed to have been written explicitly for them, bringing to the surface their strengths and subtly concealing their weaknesses.

After sending Mallory away the first night, Mace had taken Kevin and the others down a steep and narrow metal staircase into the building's sub-basement. It was a dark, cramped, smelly room, damp and cluttered with intestinelike pipes that came from the walls and ceiling. Across from the staircase a hole had been knocked into the wall, just big enough for a man to squeeze through if he hunched down.

"It's important that you're not seen coming inio the building," Mace said, holding a lantern before hint. "So come through this way."

A draft of bitter sewage odor wafted into the room through the hole, fluttering the cobwebs that stretched from pipe to pipe around the room like wasted muscle tissue, and the boys objected loudly.

"C'mon, guys," Mace laughed, "where's your sense of adventure?" He led them to the hole, through which they could hear the dripping and rushing of sewage. "The sewer system will give us access to any part of the Valley we want without the hassle of being followed."

"Why do we have to hide?" Kevin asked.

With a smile, Mace put his arm around Kevin's shoulders and said, "We're not going to win any popularity contests, my friend."

Kevin wasn't sure what that meant, but he didn't question him. He never questioned Mace; none of them did. There was a wisdom in Mace, an air of knowledge that seemed to hover far above questioning. If asked to explain his nearly blind acceptance of Mace, Kevin wasn't sure he could. Part of it lay in Mace's determination to help the band, but perhaps a great deal of it was due to the fact that Mace seemed to have an equally blind acceptance of Kevin and his friends.

Because of Mace, Kevin had been going to school regularly. After he told Mace what had happened at home, Mace told him to do his best to keep peace for a while, and that included going to school. He didn't need to explain; it made perfect sense to Kevin.

His parents had threatened to put him into a counseling program, even send him to the Laurel Teen Center.

"Our insurance will cover it," his father said, sitting in his favorite chair chewing Juicy Fruit.

His mother added, "And they'll keep you there until you've learned how to handle responsibility, until you've learned how to act like an adult, which you
are,
even though you're only seventeen. That's old enough; you are an adult."

"You'll receive therapy in groups and in a one-on-one situation," his father went on. "There are counseling programs that will teach you how to deal with school responsibilities, home responsibilities. Unless things change, Kevin, that's where you're going."

If he did what they wanted for a while, they would leave him alone so he could rehearse with the band.