“We had to do it, Debbie.” But the voice which spoke was Rick’s, not Julio’s; and for an instant the two of them were frozen, face to face, outside time together, isolated from the others. Seeing the expression in Debbie’s eyes, Rick cried, “She saw me, when I was stomping that queer. And that other night, she... she begged for it...”
Debbie ran for the door, catching them enough by surprise so that she had thrust an arm and shoulder out, her mouth opened to scream, before hands dragged her back and smothered her cries.
The hands which had snatched her from safety were Rick’s.
“See?” hissed Julio. “You see what she would do? Now you know why it is necessary to teach her to keep her mouth shut.”
Debbie stared into Rick’s face; his eyes were bloodshot but a stony finality dwelt there also. The whole fabric of her existence dissolved like cloth in acid. Then Rick, with a convulsive, almost blind movement, thrust her at Champ. His hands circled her arms like articulated steel straps.
“Ricky...” she pleaded. “Oh, God, please, Ricky, don’t—”
“You’d better... gag her first.” His face was stark white; he had aged a dozen years in as many seconds. “And make sure you tie her up when you’re... through. I’ll... meet you down at the cabin.”
Heavy’s hand closed hotly over Debbie’s mouth, mashing her lips against her teeth. Her eyes rolled wildly, like a fire-trapped mare’s, as Julio dragged an old mattress out from behind the workbench. He dropped it by the Ford, and began fumbling at his pants.
“I got seconds,” Champ said hoarsely from somewhere above her.
She heard the door shut quietly behind Rick.
Hands jerked her roughly forward, flipped her over on the grease-stained mattress so a wad of oily rag could be thrust into her mouth. Other, eager hands plucked at the waistband of her trim beige skirt, then jerked at her panties. Then, for a long time, there was only the continuing nightmare of sweat and thrusting pain and the lesser abrasions of the mattress cover against her back. Finally there was nothing.
Curt awoke feeling hollow, drained, without purpose. He tried to tell himself that this evening he would be going down to the cabin to meet Debbie and possibly her boyfriend, or else to face the predators; but he knew it was a fraud. He knew he wouldn’t be going. Perhaps, he told himself, he lacked the necessary edge of hatred or of anger. Or perhaps it was just that the years had taken too much out of him. But if even Preston was afraid to go...
Classes would start, Curt would return to teaching, and would, in time, recapture his enthusiasm for it. Perhaps he would start once again on his book. Perhaps...
The phone rang. It was 1:47 P.M.
“Curt Halstead here.”
“Don’t go! Don’t... they’ll be waiting for you, all of them!”
Curt recognized the weak and anguished voice immediately; he leaned forward tensely. “Debbie, what have they done to you? Where...”
“They wouldn’t... stop...” The hysteria in her voice brought sweat to his face. It ran down his chin and stung where he had shaved his neck too close. “There was a mattress... they took turns...”
He tried to make his voice even, conversational. “Debbie, everything is going to be all right, you’re doing fine, just tell me where—”
“Ricky just... left me alone with them. He just...” She suddenly whimpered, “Please, please... help me...”
Curt dashed the sweat from his eyes, reached for the phone book to balance it on his knee. “Debbie, where are you?”
“I... Heavy’s place. They... they wouldn’t stop.”
“You’re doing fine, Debbie. Heavy what? What’s his last name?”
“Heavy.” Her voice seemed farther away, abstracted. She gave a long sigh, then said very distinctly, “Heavy Gander. Please help me.”
“Gander.” Curt leafed through the G’s, ran his finger down a column. Only one. Gander, Charles. “Debbie, is the address three-eight-seven Cuesta Avenue?”
There was no response.
“Debbie, honey, is it on Cuesta Avenue?”
No answer.
He made a decision. He set the receiver down beside the phone, so the connection still was open, tossed aside the phone book, and ran for the car. Check the map. Cuesta. North. He raced the VW up to Entrada, over to El Camino, north again. Only one Gander in the book, had to be the right one. Had to... But if it wasn’t, the phone connection still was open — unless Debbie would come out of it and hang up. God. They just had repeated — he even could understand their thinking. The last time, the woman had killed herself. It sure as hell would work to make Debbie keep her mouth shut.
And have a little fun in the bargain. A little innocent fun.
God. Curt had triggered this; now he couldn’t let things drop. Was it just last night he had been so naive as to think he could just walk away from it, and no one hurt? And no Debbie...
He was nearly to the Fifth Avenue turn-off that would take him to Cuesta before he even thought of stopping to call an ambulance, or the police. Hadn’t he done enough already? It was time for the professionals now, he had the predators where he wanted them: a chargeable offense, with an assault victim who could and probably would identify.
Curt didn’t even slow down. What had Worden said? The D.A.’d be damned lucky to get ’em on probation and remanded to the custody of their parents for a year. Harold Rockwell. Blind. Paula. Dead. Barbara. Terrorized. Debbie. Raped. Whoever they were, whatever they were, Curt wanted vengeance. Personal vengeance. On their bodies.
It was an indifferently kept-up bungalow on a weed-choked half-acre. Curt left the VW in the driveway with the door hanging open, ran across the untended yard to the front door. Locked.
He ran down beside the house, poked an arm through the kitchen screen door, flipped up the hook. Inside he saw a broom; he picked it up and with a wrench of powerful forearms broke the handle in half. A compelling weapon, a jagged-tipped broom handle, when jabbed at eyes or throat. He crossed a kitchen where green-bellied flies buzzed around a sinkful of unwashed dishes. Wife either dead or divorced, man and his son batching it. Charles Gander and his son Heavy. The father off for the weekend, maybe...
But the house was empty. Plenty of disorder, except that it was the continuing disorder of careless living, not of violence.
He went back outside. The wrong Gander? But...
Garage. Double doors closed. He was running again, carrying his broomstick. The doors were barred, so he went around to the side. Would they have a phone extension in the garage? Well... He laid an ear to the side door and called her name.
No answer. And the windows were painted black inside, so he could not see in. He rammed the broomstick through a pane. Still too dark to see anything; so he stepped back and smashed out the whole window. He could see a stripped-down Ford in the middle of the garage, and beside it, flopped carelessly beside the puddle of oil under the car, a greasy old mattress. There was a mattress... they took turns...
Debbie was crouched in the angle of the farthest corner of the garage, half hidden by a workbench. She still held the receiver of Heavy’s bootlegged phone in her hand, but her eyes were merely dark, empty pools in the shadowy garage.
“Debbie?” She didn’t even turn her head to Curt’s call.
He unlocked the window, pushed up the glassless frame, wriggled through. Debbie’s naked breasts were rising and falling shallowly and rapidly, her only sign of life; her ankles were tied. At some time, perhaps before she had called him, she had pulled her stained and bloodied miniskirt up into her lap in a terribly forlorn attempt at modesty. She seemed beyond any of that now. There were a few smears of blood on the mattress, not very many, and dark stains on the cement floor where she had dragged herself to the telephone on the edge of the workbench. There were also heavy dark stains on her forearms and wrists.