Deranged

by Lonni Lees

  She was a good little game player.

  Sabrina looked up to see what had blocked the morning light. A rain cloud? A tall, tanned man stood before her. He wore an odd expression she could not identify. Warmth? Sadness? She could not tell for sure, but it looked out of place on his rugged face. As he removed his sunglasses she looked into eyes that melted like quicksilver. She couldn’t tell if he was looking straight at her or not…or through her…or past her. There was a distance to his voice as he spoke—his words were strung together but sounded as disconnected as a riddle. She felt as if it was not really her he was speaking to at all.

  “I would sure like some Peanut Butter Patties. I’ll buy all you’ve got, little sister.”

  “I’ve only got Mint Patties, mister, and plenty of Caramels and Shortbreads. Is that okay?”

  The man did not answer but Sabrina read the disappointment on his face.

  “Would that be alright? The Mints and the Shortbreads?”

  “Don’t you remember me?” he mumbled.

  “What did you say?” She wasn’t sure if she had heard him right. “I couldn’t hear you.”

  “Sure. That would be just fine,” he said with a smile.

  Meg Stinson walked over to where her daughter stood. “Do you need some help?” she asked, not sure if she was addressing the man or Sabrina.

  “I just wasn’t sure what he wanted. We’re out of the peanut butter ones.” Sabrina said.

  “Why, is this your little girl?” Charlie asked. Meg nodded. “She is almost as pretty as her mother. I was just telling her I would like to buy up all the cookies she has left. I’ve got a real sweet tooth this morning.”

  He turned on the charm. He assessed the woman and wished he hadn’t worn his boots. This was a real lady, no shit-kicking trailer trash he could wind around his little finger. She would take a special approach. Momma would have called her “uptown.” She had told him about their blood being different, blue or something, but he had spilled enough blood in his travels to know they all bled the same. (The poor shall always be among us, she had said, the rich will always see to that.)

  Was that from the bible?

  Sometimes Momma confused him so.

  He watched as the Girl Scout and the uptown lady put the boxes of cookies into a larger box. He looked at the lady’s hand. She wore no wedding band. He counted the money and handed it to the pretty young girl, all the time being careful to make eye contact with the mother.

  “Thanks. We have to be going.” Meg handed him the box and turned to leave.

  “Ma’am, perhaps I could give you both a lift.”

  Oh, you’re a stupid shit, Charlie Blackhawk thought. How the hell do you expect to impress a lady with that old Nova? You stupid, stupid dumb ass.

  Meg looked up at the tall man. He reminded her of an old-time movie star—Randolph Scott in his prime perhaps—handsome and weather-worn like a hero from some old western oater. The lone stranger who rode in on a horse as white as his Stetson to tame some wild, lawless town. Nice to look at, sure. But he was a man nonetheless. Sidney Newhouse—Junior Barnes—they were all the same. But the warning alarm that went off in Meg’s head went unheeded as she and Sabrina started the walk to their car.

  Junior had returned to the motel room later that night, awakening her from a restless sleep. He turned her onto her stomach with a rough jerk (you’ll learn to please a man). He beat her with his fists (she learned real fast for a kid). She was resigned.

  Look Mom, Mary Margaret’s a big girl now.

  Innocence was dead.

  Junior Barnes was no savior, no hero, but he was one hell of a teacher.

  Her fall from grace was complete but she had a long way to go before she hit rock bottom.

  “Thanks for the offer,” she said to the man, “but we have a car. Enjoy the cookies.”

  “Yeah, thanks,” Sabrina pitched in.

  “Char…Charles Black’s the name.”

  “Well, thanks Charles, but we really must be going.”

  You won’t get rid of me that easy, you uppity cunt, Charlie thought as he turned toward his car. He looked back and saw them get into a battered Volkswagen, but they did not see him. Hell, they didn’t give him a second look. He had been dismissed. The Invisible Man. He hopped into the Nova and turned the key in the ignition.

  Neither Meg nor Sabrina noticed as the old Nova lagged a block behind them. They were talking excitedly about Friday’s Hollywood Reporter and Gideon Stark’s mention of Meg in his column. “A new face and a fiery talent,” he had said. Meg had not given him a second thought at Tony Savage’s party, but apparently her argument with Sidney had made quite an impression. They had bought ten copies of the Reporter and pasted a page on the refrigerator door. Betty had highlighted the comments with a bright pink marker.

  Then they had opened a bottle of cheap Andre champagne.

  Later that day Meg’s agent called. The interviews had already begun. Maybe there was some justice in the world after all. Somebody else could give Newhouse his blow-jobs and she would finally have parts with more than two lines.

  The Nova followed at a cautious distance, Charlie watching as the Volkswagen pulled into the driveway. He pulled to the curb half a block back and watched them enter the small wood-frame house. You can’t get rid of Charlie Blackhawk that easy, he thought as he opened a box of Thin Mints and popped one into his mouth. They didn’t taste as good as Peanut Butter Patties but he was good at pretending and pretty soon he could feel the peanut butter on the roof of his mouth.

  He had found Lucy Mae, that was the important thing. He had not even been thinking about her and all of a sudden there she was, right in front of him. Maybe she had really found him this time, had been looking for him all along.

  Charlie Blackhawk sat behind the wheel for a long time, eating Mint Cookies that tasted just like peanut butter and thinking.

  Thinking real, real hard.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  “We could have put Amy in McLaren Hall or foster care…in a safe environment, until this matter is resolved. Do you really think pulling strings was the best thing for her? I have seen you lawyers in action more times than I care to count—children being returned to abusive homes only to be molested again—or worse. It is the legal system that fails these kids. I’m going to nail you, Mr. Hamill. We’re going to find the proof we need to prevent her from ever being returned to you again.”

  Jerry had won the battle so far—he had Amy back home. Pulling strings and using his connections were all the ammunition he had to fight with. The woman who stood before him had short-cropped black hair, a dark suit with a man’s shirt and tie. He saw an angry woman blinded by her own prejudices as she championed a legitimate cause, a cause Jerry himself felt strongly about.

  But he had already been judged.

  “Not all men are evil,” he said. “I would never victimize my own daughter. I would never victimize anyone.”

  The woman shuffled her papers. “Ms. Flores’s initial report says your daughter has all the classic signs….”

  “For instance?”

  “The fears, the nightmares, the bed-wetting, sexual knowledge beyond her years. Need I continue?”

  “The doctor’s report said she is intact. Doesn’t that indicate you are on the wrong track here?”

  “I could spend hours reciting horror stories of abuses perpetrated on girls who remain intact,” she snapped. “Men can be very clever, very imaginative. Believe me, Mr. Hamill, this investigation is far from over. As things proceed you are to continue Amy’s sessions with Ms. Flores. And put this on the record—one out of four girls are sexually molested—one out of four! The statistics speak for themselves.”

  There was no point in arguing with the woman. They would see Ms. Flores, no problem. The important thing was that he had Amy with him while the system spun its wheels.

  “Don’t hit me so hard, Momma,” Charlie had begged as his mother’s fist made contact with the side of his head. �
��It makes my head feel bad. It makes it hurt even when you aren’t hitting me.”

  Charlie’s brain was fuzzy when he heard the knock on the door. It was only 11 a.m. but Charlie needed to work things off so he could function. He was formulating a plan. He opened the door and a woman stood before him, holding the hand of a young girl. The girl was wearing a cheap red wig, just as he had ordered, and she looked up at the woman nervously.

  “Magic sent us,” the woman said.

  “Magic?”

  “Yeah, Magic—The Magic Man,” she said as they entered the motel room. She seemed agitated as she undressed herself. Beads of perspiration dotted her brow despite the room’s chill. Charlie explained the rules of the game as the woman wiped her arm across her forehead. Festering track marks raged across her clammy skin and her hands trembled as she undressed the girl.

  When Charlie stepped out of his jeans the girl gasped.

  “Get on the bed and pretend you are sleeping,” he said.

  The girl froze, her arms folded to cover her undeveloped breasts.

  “Just do what he says and we’ll be outta here,” the woman said. A high-pitched urgency punctuated her words as she absently rubbed the marks on her arm. She needed a fix. Badly.

  “Mommy!” The girl said, but she obeyed and lay stiffly on one of the beds, her eyes squeezed tightly shut.

  Charlie lay on the other bed and grinned as the woman mounted him, a cigarette dangling from her mouth, as ordered.

  “Say it,” he snapped.

  “You be a good boy and mind your momma.”

  “That’s good,” he said as he slid inside of her. His gaze was intense as he watched the woman grind her pelvis against his groin.

  Ten-year-old Charlie lay in fear on his bed, awaiting the punishment from God that his mother was obligated to inflict upon him. God had told her so. The hot embers from her cigarette seared the young flesh of his penis, shooting the pain through his body. Pain and pleasure intertwined, sending their mixed messages to his impressionable mind.

  Pain and pleasure.

  Again, the woman straddled him.

  “You been a bad boy,” she repeated.

  “Now say it!” Charlie yelled, sliding out of her, unable to maintain his erection. “Say it.”

  “I….”

  “Say it, you stupid twat.”

  “I…I want to watch you with her.” The woman’s trembling finger pointed to the young girl on the bed.

  The girl looked up, eyes wide.

  “I don’t want to,” said Charlie, but he got into the bed next to her, his hands prying apart her unyielding thighs. His hand slid up her leg, cupping her hairless mound. His breathing was shallow and rapid as his hands hesitantly toyed with her.

  “Lucy Mae,” he whispered.

  He grabbed the girl by her wrists and knelt over her, pushing her legs apart with his knee. In one swift movement he fell atop her, pressing his semi-erection against her, unable to drive himself into her. Instantaneously, a pained moan escaped through his lips. “Nooooo.”

  “Mommy no!” the girl screamed. Her screams turned to sobs and her sobs slapped Charlie to the present. He rolled off of her, bolted from the bed, slapped the woman hard across the face.

  “Stupid bitch!” he yelled, “You made her cry. Look, you hurt her and made her cry. You didn’t play the game right, fucked it all up, didn’t say the words when you were supposed to.”

  “I…I’m sorry, I’ll do it right this time.” The woman touched the painful welts raising across her cheek.

  “It’s too late,” he said. Then, in an anguished child’s voice he added: “Made her cry you hurt her and made her cry bad mother made my Lucy cry.” His fingers recoiled into fists and his fists covered his ears as he attempted to block out the girl’s sobs. “Didn’t mean to hurt you Lucy,” he whined. “Didn’t mean to Lucy love you Lucy love you Momma made me do it Lucy Lucy Lucy.”

  His head snapped around, his eyes fixed intently on the woman. “Get the fuck out of here. Tell Magic or The Magic Man or whatever the hell you call him to send someone who knows how to play the game.”

  The woman was going to tell Charlie that he had to pay her—that Magic would be pissed off—that he would not send anyone else unless Charlie paid her now , but as she opened her mouth to speak she looked into Charlie’s rabid eyes and knew to say nothing.

  The Magic Man would have to collect on this one himself.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  With the patience of a vulture, Charlie Blackhawk sat perched atop the Nova. It was early afternoon and he was getting hungry. For nearly an hour he watched, and waited. He smoked one Camel after another while he waited and watched the cars come and go.

  The Van Nuys parking lot for the Airport Flyaway Bus Service was large. It was a secure place to leave one’s car and take the bus to LAX; so much easier than fighting the bumper to bumper Los Angeles traffic to the International Airport.

  Safe.

  Unless Charlie Blackhawk was in town.

  Waiting patiently for just the right one, Charlie watched. When the Sterling pulled into a space two rows down his muscles twitched. Things were looking good. As a man opened his door the little brats’ whining spilled across the blacktop. Little boys were just not nice like little girls, Charlie thought. Little boys were bad, bad, bad.

  Charlie knew all about bad little boys.

  A raspy chuckle escaped from Charlie’s throat as he watched the man struggle with the luggage. Charlie did not need a formal education to read people. He hopped off the hood, flicking his cigarette through the air. Smog stained the valley a doleful amber and unseasonable heat soaked his underarms. Ass holes, he thought, sauntering over to where the man fought his overload. Good Samaritan Charlie offered to assist.

  The man smiled and Charlie stood silent as the trunk slammed shut. The man shoved car keys into his left jacket pocket. The two men picked up the suitcases and walked to the bus terminal.

  “Thank you for the help,” the wife said. Between the car and the line Charlie had learned all he needed to know. They would be in England for two weeks and that gave Charlie plenty of time.

  People pushed against each other as they edged towards the waiting bus, kicking their suitcases ahead of them with their feet as they jostled and inched their way forward. Seeing his opportunity, Charlie purposely lunged forward and tripped over a suitcase, catching himself as he fell against the man that he had helped from the parking lot. He apologized, wished the family a safe trip, then waved them off. As he walked away he felt deep inside his pocket, his fingers curled around the keys to the Sterling. They would be half way to Gatwick before the fool would notice they were gone. He would probably figure he had dropped them when he got out of his car. It would give his wife a reason to admonish him. Probably in front of the kids and strangers. Ass holes. Everything was working out just hunky-dory.

  Charlie walked back to the Nova and opened the trunk. He pulled out New Mexico plates, personal belongings and a dusty bottle of chloroform then headed across the lot to the Sterling.

  His Sterling.

  Charlie could not remember how long he had been parked in the Hollywood Hills, but it was nightfall. He was fairly sure that no more than half a day had passed, but he could not be certain. Sometimes hours slipped away, sometimes entire days, when he was thinking. Time seemed to slide in and out of reality like Charlie himself. Ordinarily the passage of time meant little to him, but now he had a mission to fulfill.

  He had seen the vision and it spoke to him in riddles, but he had grasped the meaning. The child’s prayers would be answered. He sat in the Sterling with its New Mexico plates and lit smoke after smoke. It helped him focus. The city lay in neon throbs beneath him and a soft breeze whispered shameful tales in his ears from through the eucalyptus branches above.

  Charlie felt in control of all that lay beneath him. He resisted the urge to masturbate in the darkness, for if all went well there would be such wondrous games to play.


  Games…was that the plan?

  Or was it something else?

  He could not remember. But it would be soon.

  Very soon now.

  Oh, so very soon.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Sabrina sat in the darkened living room, eyes glued to The Great Escape on the television. Charles Bronson had his first really big role in this movie and she would not have missed it for anything. He had changed his name from Buchinsky to Bronson for political reasons at a time when ethnic names, especially anything than rang Russian or Eastern European, raised red flags. She did not look up as Betty walked through the front door. “Some days suck,” Betty said. “And you shouldn’t be watching in the dark. It’s bad for your eyes.”

  “It’s The Great Escape.”

  “Want ice cream?” They went to the kitchen, dished it out and returned to the television just as Bronson crawled through the claustrophobic tunnel, muscled arms gritty with dirt and slick with perspiration.

  “Total hunk,” said Sabrina.

  “Totally,” Betty mimicked. “Hell, I’d settle for John Candy.”

  “Meg is still out on interviews but I made a big tuna casserole. She worries me, Betty. Jason pushes too hard—she’s flying on pure adrenaline and already headed for burnout. This is really too much pressure. Maybe too much despite the possible rewards, don’t you think?”

  “He believes in her, honey. We all do—more than she believes in herself I fear.”

  Betty arose from the couch, hoisting the elastic waistband up on her slacks as she headed for the kitchen. She hated fat girl clothes, as well as the constant shortness of breath. But she loved her food. It filled a void, she knew that, but it worked. She leaned over the oven door and took out the casserole, setting it atop the stove. The phone hung on the wall above the utensil drawer. She fished through the silverware, steak knives and butcher knives, and pulled out a large spoon. Everything was tossed into the drawer with no semblance of order. As bad as a house full of bachelors, she thought, spooning the casserole into bowls, knowing the portions would not appease her appetite, knowing hunger pains would soon undermine the best of intentions. She sighed as she returned to sit next to Sabrina on the couch. She handed her a bowl, and they began to eat, eyes fixed on the television screen. And Bronson.