Crucifax (16 page)

"So… what
are
they?"

Mace tucked his forefinger beneath the creature's chin, and a long, thin, black tongue flicked out, licked his finger delicately, then disappeared.

"They're my eyes," Mace breathed. Smiling suddenly, he said, "Don't worry about Mallory. She'll come when she's ready."

Then his face stiffened, his head tilted back, eyes closed, and he remained still for a long while, as if watching something….

"What are you wearing, Lou?"

"Wearing? Um, I'm, uh, wearing an undershirt."

"Is that all?"

"Yuh… uh, yeah. That's all."

"Come on, now, Lou, no fibbing. I don't think that's all you're wearing, is it?" Standing in her bedroom, Erin held the receiver a bit closer to her lips and lowered her voice to a husky whisper. "Is it?"

"Well… no. Not all."

"What else?"

"Urn, well, I'm…" His lips smacked dryly. "I'm wearing a pair of my wife's, uh… pantyhose."

"Mmm…. pantyhose, Lou! Do you know how much that turns me on?"

"It does?" He sounded pleased.

"Oh, yeeaah. That nylon stretched over your legs, over your thighs… You know what I love the
most?
"

"Wha…?"

Erin smiled, held back a giggle. It was strictly forbidden to laugh at a client's fantasy, but she couldn't ignore the humor in this one; the image of a man talking on the phone while wearing an undershirt and his wife's pantyhose was extremely funny. She stifled her laughter and concentrated on sounding sexy.

"I love to slowly rub my hand over your crotch," she cooed, "and feel that bulge grow, feel that nylon stretch over your cock as it gets bigger… thicker. Are you touching it, Lou?"

"Yeah," he gulped.

"Is it getting bigger?"

"Yeah."

"Mmm, I can almost feel it now. Squeeze it for me, Lou."

"Yeah." He was panting.

"Feels like it's going to rip right through, doesn't it?"

"Yuh-huh…"

"Stroking it?"

"Mm-hmmm…"

"Wanna rub our nylons together, Lou? Grind our crotches?"

"Oh, God, yeah, yeah…"

"Press 'em together reeeaaal hard…"

"Yeah…"

"Make 'em feel like—"

"You slut."

Erin nearly dropped the receiver as she spun around, hitting her knee on the nightstand and sucking in a deep, ragged breath when she saw Mallory peering through the two-inch opening in her bedroom door.

Mallory's eyes were narrowed to ice-cold slits, her mouth curled into a hateful sneer.

"You… miserable…
slut."
She turned and stalked away from the door, her footsteps heavy in the hallway.

"Mallory," Erin called, her voice hoarse. The receiver slipped from her hand and clattered on the nightstand, then hit the floor.

Lou's antlike voice whined, "Hello? Hello? Bunny?"

Erin felt dizzy as she pulled her bedroom door open, tears filling her eyes. She wondered how long Mallory had been standing there. The torn photograph filled Erin's mind with unbearable clarity.

When she got to the living room, Mallory was putting on her coat.

"Mallory, wait."

She grabbed her bag and started for the door, but Erin stepped before her and put her hands on Mallory's shoulders.

"Don't touch me," she spat, pulling away.

"Wait, Mallory, please."

"For what? So you can explain, I suppose?" She dropped her arms at her sides, letting her bag dangle against her leg.

"I don't know what you're thinking right now, but I want you to know—"

"I'm thinking I know why Dad left."

"Now wait a minute, I didn't do this while your dad was here."

"Oh? What did you do?"

Erin stepped back, shocked by the hate in her daughter's face. She fought to steady her voice.

"Mallory, we've screamed and shouted about this enough. I think it's time we just talked, don't you?"

"Like you were talking to your friend in there?" she snapped, stabbing a thumb over her shoulder toward Erin's bedroom.

Clenching her teeth, Erin said, "That helps pay the rent and buy groceries and clothes, and if your father hadn't left in the first place, I wouldn't have to do it!"

"Maybe that's why he left, you ever think about that? Maybe he didn't like living with a
whore!
"

"I am
not
a whore!" Erin shouted, her voice cracking. "I was never unfaithful to your father. Not once. But whether you want to believe it or not, he was sleeping with every goddamned—" Her words were garbled by a sob as she turned from Mallory. She wanted to hit something, break something, to get rid of the rage that was ripping through her chest.

"Does Jeff know?" Mallory asked with a snide chuckle.

"Oh, God, Mallory, please don't tell him," she whispered.

" 'Don't blame Mom,' he says, 'She's doing her best,' he says. But does he know what Mom is best at?" She made a snorting sound and growled, "I think somebody's waiting for you on the phone."

Erin heard her sling the bag over her shoulder, heard the door open, then slam. She let out her pain in a hoarse, wordless cry, leaning her hip against the back of the sofa. Her face felt hot with shame, and she clutched her cheeks with her hands, thinking she would have to pull herself together before Jeff got home.

Something squeaked and scuttled inside the apartment wall….

Kevin watched Mace curiously until his eyes finally opened again. Smiling down at him, Mace put his hand on Kevin's shoulder and said, "She's ready now. Bring her tonight."

Sixteen

October 14

It was Friday, and the hall outside the counseling center was filled with loud and hurried students eager to start their weekend. In J.R.'s office, however, it was quiet as J.R. sat at his desk listening to Jeff Carr. For twenty minutes Jeff had been telling J.R. about his sister, about her unusual behavior lately.

"I wasn't going to bring it up," Jeff said, "but she didn't come home at all last night. When I got home, my mother was really upset, she'd been crying, but she wouldn't tell me what was wrong. I think something happened between them. And I don't think Mallory came to school today, either."

"Does your mother know?"

Jeff shook his head.

J.R. was fascinated by the changes in the boy's face as he spoke of his sister. He was obviously worried about Mallory, but there seemed to be more than that.

"Why weren't you going to tell me?"

"Because I didn't want you to think I was, you know, prying, being nosy about my sister's business."

"Well, there's nothing wrong with being concerned about your sister, Jeff."

"But she hates it."

"Doesn't mean she hates you."

"But she hardly talks to me anymore." Jeff's face was pensive, clouded; the patch of skin between his brows was creased.

"Do you think she's with Kevin?"

"Probably. I don't know."

"Has Mallory had any other boyfriends before Kevin?"

"One last summer, but they never—" Jeff stopped himself, pressed his lips together as he blushed.

"Never what?"

"Well, I don't think they, um… were as serious." Jeff wouldn't meet his eyes; his face remained red for a moment.

Realization slowly began to dawn in J.R.'s mind. He saw more than guilt in Jeff's face; he saw shame.

This guy's jealous of his sister,
he thought.
He's got a crush on her.

That explained the way Jeff had been acting. Normally, he seemed quiet, but with a sharp wit that he used well. He was a good student, involved in school activities, and seemed to have a good number of friends. Today he seemed closed in on himself. The change was subtle; his posture was tense, his arms crossed in his lap. He'd even been rocking himself slightly in the chair, as if to comfort himself.

Perhaps there was just as much reason to worry about Jeff as there was to worry about Mallory.

Scribbling on a scrap of paper, J.R. said, "Here's my home phone number. If she doesn't show up this weekend and you think something's really wrong, give me a call. Otherwise, I'll try to talk to her on Monday."

"If she knew I'd told you about—"

"Don't worry. She won't. We'll just talk. In the meantime, Jeff, don't take all of your sister's problems on your shoulders. I'm speaking from experience here. She's going to do whatever she wants, no matter what you think."

Jeff nodded as J.R. handed him the phone number.

After they wished each other a good weekend, Jeff left. His concern for his sister stirred some unpleasant memories up from the bottom of J.R.'s mind. He tried to imagine how much more complicated his situation with Sheila would have been had he felt more than just a brotherly interest in her welfare. If that was really the case with Jeff, J.R. didn't envy him….

As the Calvary Youth House slowly filled with smiling, chattering teenagers, Reverend James Bainbridge closed his Bible and stood from his desk in the main room. A small bell hanging over the front door jingled each time someone came in, and Bainbridge looked up with a smile.

The house was always busy with activity—some of the kids even lived there—but it came to life around midafternoon as they finished up their classes and began to gather for the afternoon meeting.

It was a large four-bedroom house in a quiet neighborhood on Lamona Street in Sherman Oaks. Bainbridge knew the property manager well; he was a Christian who strongly supported Bainbridge's work with teenagers, so he'd offered the house at half the normal rent, which was easily paid with each month's acquired donations. Mrs. Wanamaker, a widow from Northridge, spent most of her time at the house cooking for them, keeping it tidy, and helping Bainbridge with organizational details. She was constantly smiling. She was of medium height—nearly as wide as she was tall— with rosy cheeks, fluttering hands, and graying hair. Lately she had been complaining of noises in the walls, frightened by the possibility of encountering a mouse. Bainbridge had set out poison, but Mrs. Wanamaker insisted she still heard them. He feared he might have to call an exterminator, an expense the group could not easily afford.

Bainbridge sat on the edge of his desk as the teenagers came in and found seats on the chairs and beanbags and cushions that were arranged in a half circle. Most of the furniture had been donated by parents or collected at garage sales and Goodwill stores, but it served its purpose.

His chest filled with pride as he watched his kids gather in the main room. They were clean, neatly dressed, healthy, and brave enough to surrender their lives and souls openly to their Lord, willing to risk the ridicule and rejection of their friends and families. In this day and age, Bainbridge often thought, that was an act of bravery.

He counted fourteen kids in the room and decided to get started.

"Good afternoon," he said with a smile.

Scattered greetings came from the group.

Bainbridge stood and pulled up a chair, seating himself at the front of the semicircle with his Bible in his lap. He leaned toward a chubby black girl to his left and said, "Brenda, could you go in the back and get the others?"

She stood and headed for the bedrooms to get the five teenagers—three boys and two girls—who lived in the house.

The bell over the front door jingled again, and Bainbridge quickly swept his eyes over the group to see who was missing. Calvary Youth had a membership of thirty-one, but he'd split them up into two groups for convenience. They gathered together each weekend, but today there were to be only fifteen, not counting the residents. When he realized who was missing, his throat tightened just a bit because he knew who was coming in the door.

Nikki Astin.

She stood in the doorway a moment, her usual warm smile gone. Her face looked long, her eyes worried as she slowly closed the door, avoiding his eyes as she crossed the room. As she drew closer, sitting across from him, he realized her eyes were red, as if she'd been crying. He wanted to ask her if anything was wrong but couldn't bring himself to speak to her.

Bainbridge's stomach ached with guilt. Since last July, each time he saw her he sent up a silent prayer for forgiveness, at the same time remembering with a shiver of pleasure that first muggy night he'd taken her into his bed….

And the second…

And, a little less than a month ago—

Please, God, forgive me my weaknesses, my loneliness….

—the last time in that wretched motel room.

He took a deep breath and smiled at her, trying to keep his lips from trembling and his eyes from wandering.

Brenda returned with the others, and Mrs. Wanamaker came out of the kitchen, wiping her hands on her apron, and took a seat.

"All right," Bainbridge said, "I think that's everyone. I hope the week has gone well for all of you so far. Uh, today we're going on a field trip. I expect we'll be gone for a couple hours or so. Is that a problem for anyone? Do you have any other plans?"

They responded with "no's" and "uh-uh's" and shaking heads.

Four or five times each week they went to different locations in the Valley where teenagers were likely to be found—sometimes in the afternoon, sometimes in the evening—and passed out literature, spread the Word, and, if nothing else, tried to make the community more aware of Calvary Youth.

"Before we go," Bainbridge said, "I think we should turn to the scriptures for some guidance and encouragement. Today I've chosen a verse from Corinthians. It's one we've read and talked about before, but I think it's a good one to keep in mind as we go about our work. It's from the second book, verse eleven, King James. Tor we which live are always delivered unto death for Jesus's sake, that the life also of Jesus might be made manifest in our mortal flesh.'" He looked from one young face to another and said, "Any ideas as to what that might mean? How about you, Jim? You're very literary. Any thoughts?"

Jim was curled up in a worn, overstuffed chair, frowning. After a moment of silence, he said, "Sounds like it wants us to kill ourselves so Christ can replace us. Take us over. Like in
Invasion of the Body Snatchers
or something."