Bring Me Children

by David Martin

  They sit awhile longer and then Lyon asks, “Where were you yesterday, when I brought the sheriff here?”

  “I hid. I didn’t want to put you in an awkward position.”

  “Awkward position? Like telling the sheriff there was a comatose woman here and then —”

  “I’m sorry. I know I’ve botched everything.”

  “I didn’t have much credibility to start with — because of what happened on the air a week ago Sunday. You know about that?”

  “Of course.”

  “Of course,” he repeats. “Anyway, I’m sure the sheriff has reported me to the network, I’m sure I’m unemployed, I still get these crying and laughing spells —”

  “Laughing?”

  “Yes, a new development since the one everybody saw on television. Your grandmother picked the wrong person to be her champion.”

  “You can still use a shovel.”

  He looks at her.

  “Claire always said that the way to prove the case against Quinndell was to dig up one of the graves.”

  “Why didn’t your grandmother do it then?”

  “She was always watched when she was in town.”

  “Are you going to dig up the graves?”

  “Yes — and you’re going to help.”

  “No,” Lyon replies with what he hopes is ironlike conviction. He raises the cup to his lips but finds that the coffee has cooled.

  “I’ll pour you a fresh cup.”

  As Claire goes from table to sink to stove, then back to the table, Lyon keeps his eyes on her. The sudden lust he feels disorients him, and twice Lyon has to stop himself from getting out of his chair and going to her. He keeps catching glimpses of the way her ass moves beneath the hem of his teeshirt.

  She puts his coffee cup in front of him and then, before Claire has a chance to step away, Lyon runs his hand under the teeshirt, onto her bare ass. All he’s waiting for is one hint of encouragement — a smile, a soft word — and then Lyon will have her down on the kitchen floor. But as soon as his hand touches her ass, Claire simply halts and looks off into the middle distance, neither encouraging nor discouraging him. And when he withdraws his hand, she proceeds to her chair at the other end of the table as if overlooking some social gaffe he has made.

  Lyon sips at the coffee, waits for her to say something, and then asks Claire to tell him about her grandmother.

  “She was one of those remarkable black women who holds everything and everyone together. Her marriage to Stuart was beautiful, they doted on each other. It was a combination of Stuart dying and Quinndell harassing her that drove Claire crazy.”

  “Was she actually … Yesterday when I met Quinndell he gave me a file on your —”

  “You met the beast?”

  “Yes. You knew he was blind.”

  “Claire always said that his blindness proves that God still answers prayers. He had a brain tumor. I hope I never see him again.”

  “He scares you.”

  “He’s evil. If it weren’t for his being isolated in a small town where he controls the authorities, Mason Quinndell would’ve been committed to a hospital for the criminally insane a long time ago. He’s murdered babies, raped women, tortured men —”

  “Come on, Claire, no one gets away with stuff like that.”

  “Really? How did John Wayne Gacy go on for all those years, killing young men and burying them under his house? How did Jeffrey Dahmer keep on without getting caught, chopping up victims in his apartment for godssake? These were not master criminals. They got away with it because no one cared about their victims. And that’s how Quinndell operates, that’s how he gets away with it, he hurts people who are powerless.”

  “Did your grandmother know about these other victims?”

  “Claire kept in contact with people here, people who hated Quinndell and have been hurt by him but can’t do anything about it except feed information to Claire.”

  “The file he gave me contains some damaging information.”

  “I’m sure it does. The vampire accusation, right?”

  “For one.”

  “It was a setup. He got one of his doctor friends to pretend he was drinking blood so Claire would see him and report it and cast doubt on her accusations against Quinndell. Very effective.”

  “Your grandmother gave me a file too, but in it she never mentions why Quinndell killed those babies.”

  “We talked about that a lot of course. In her last months, Claire really went off the deep end and began speculating about Quinndell harvesting body parts or performing Satanic rituals, but she was grasping at straws by then. The fact of the matter is I don’t know why he did it. That’s what we have to find out. All I know for sure is, evil exists.”

  Lyon thinks that, after all he’s gone through since he’s been here, if he’s still having trouble believing Quinndell is a baby-killer, then how in the hell is he going to convince the network or anyone else that an investigation should be launched?

  “When I was with him in his office yesterday,” Lyon tells her, “and Quinndell was defending himself, I … well, don’t get mad at me, Claire, but I believed him. Do you think there’s any possibility that your grandmother was mistaken?”

  Claire surprises him by saying, “Sure. Anything’s possible. But I gave her my word, John — I promised I would come down here and help you.”

  She stands and walks to the kitchen window. “She left me a fall account of what she intended to do. Contacting you because of the way you cried on television when you reported that story about murdered children, knowing she would never be able to arrange an appointment to meet you, knowing she had to do something dramatic to get your attention. Of course by the time I found her note it was too late, Claire had already met you and killed herself. And it worked, didn’t it — you’re here. I guess I was hoping my dramatic appearance in that crate would have a similar effect on you.”

  He laughs bitterly. “Everyone’s certainly been dramatic. I was such a dramatic idiot with Quinndell that right before I left he turned out all the lights and I had this feeling he was coming after me, or maybe I was just being scared of the dark. What I do know is when I was out in the hallway I saw him standing there pointing something at me.”

  “A spoon?”

  Lyon jerks his head. “Yes!”

  “Was Carl with him, the deputy?”

  “No, but Sheriff Stone mentioned Carl.”

  “Carl brings Quinndell his victims.”

  “His victims?”

  She turns to face Lyon. “It’s not just babies that Quinndell has killed. People disappear around here, people whose disappearance won’t be too closely investigated. Claire was told that Quinndell gouges their eyes out with a spoon.”

  “Jesus.”

  “If we dig up one of the graves, we can put an end to it.”

  “Claire, I’m not digging up any graves, okay? So far I’ve made a fool of myself on national network television and I’ve gotten myself fired, that’s enough for this summer.”

  She gives him a look that’s both angry and disappointed, then departs the kitchen, leaving Lyon to rub the left side of his forehead, feeling the pain unfold there and behind both eyes.

  When he finally goes into the bedroom, he finds Claire dressed in jeans and a light blue blouse.

  He asks her where the clothes came from. “And you never did tell me where you’ve been hiding or how you got in here last night either. I had everything locked. And what did you do with the crate?”

  She’s sitting on the bed.

  “Claire?”

  “I’ll hire a private detective.”

  He sits next to her. “A detective will happily take your money, investigate anything you tell him to investigate as long as you keep paying — but he won’t nail Quinndell. And a private detective won’t dig up a grave for you.”

  “Neither will you.”

  “But at least I’m not charging anything.”

  “Just taking it out in
trade?”

  “You’re the one who crawled into bed with me last night.” He stands and walks to the window, finally turning to Claire and telling her, “You’re manipulating me.”

  She laughs. “Of course I’m manipulating you. I’m manipulating you the way women used hoodoo to manipulate their men — and for the same reason too. Women resort to intrigue because they have no other power. Manipulation is a reasonable response to a woman’s reality, just as guerrilla warfare is a weaker force’s reasonable response to a stronger, better equipped force. Just the way Claire manipulated you into coming here by killing herself in your presence. It’s hardly a news flash, John, for you suddenly to announce that I’m manipulating you. The only news is that my manipulation obviously hasn’t been successful.”

  He returns to her, gently pushing Claire down on the bed. “Try again.”

  “You won’t like it. I’m not good at sex.”

  “Are you kidding?”

  “Not unless I’m playing a role, the way I was last night. Otherwise I’m clumsy and self-conscious.… I told you I wasn’t very good with men.”

  “You were good with me last night.”

  “You’re not listening!”

  He starts undoing the buttons of her blue blouse, intrigued by the white bra she’s wearing. It has a tiny rose on —

  “John!”

  “Yeah?”

  Claire takes a moment to organize what she’s going to say. “I was in love or thought I was in love only once in my life and that was with an older man who was married. I got pregnant, he paid for the abortion, and since then I’ve been living very nicely, thank you, without a male presence in my life.”

  “Until last night.” He has her blouse completely open, trying to figure out the mechanics of opening the bra. It’s been a long time.

  “Shall I pretend I’m dead again?”

  That stops him. Lyon gets off the bed and stands. From behind him, however, he can hear her removing clothing.

  “Don’t turn around,” she warns. “Not until I’m under the sheet.”

  He waits.

  Claire tells him okay. “Now you take off your clothes.”

  Lyon turns. “I don’t want you to watch me undress either.”

  “Of course I’m going to watch you undress, I didn’t get to see anything last night.”

  He removes his shirt but then stops, holding the shirt in front of his chest and feeling terribly self-conscious — feeling, in fact, like a teenager doing this for the first time. “Please, I’m serious. Turn over until I get in bed.”

  “You’re being silly.” She has tears in her eyes, just enough to make them glisten. “Cute but silly — now drop that shirt and take off your pants.”

  “No.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t want you to see how fat I am, how old and fat I am.”

  “And white. You’re very white, John.”

  He doesn’t know how to answer that.

  “Okay, okay.” Claire turns over.

  Lyon drops the shirt and slips off his pants, trying to get in bed quickly — but not quickly enough, Claire turning back toward him and staring at his body as she opens her mouth and eyes in cartoon exaggeration, Lyon cursing her and laughing as he grabs for the sheet, Claire holding it so he can’t get under, both of them laughing, and John Lyon for the first time in his life feeling self-conscious about the color of his skin.

  “I told you it wasn’t going to be any good.”

  “Don’t be silly,” he says. “You were fine, you were great.”

  “Which? Fine or great?”

  “Great.”

  “Liar.”

  “I feel … Claire, anything I say is going to sound like a cliché.”

  “Let me hear your clichés, John.”

  He takes her wrist and turns it so he can see the inside of her forearm. “Where did you get these scratches, you didn’t have them last night.” They look like scrape marks, a half dozen long parallel lines where something has gouged into Claire’s flesh. Distracted by the wounds, Lyon doesn’t catch what Claire has just said. “What?”

  “I said I want to hear the clichés, John.”

  He puts her arm down. “Okay. You make me feel … whole. I feel like a new man. Nothing’s worrying me anymore, not losing my job, not the embarrassment of breaking down on camera, not these stupid laughing-crying spells I’ve been having, nothing. I want to take you back to New York, I want us to move in together, I want …”

  “You want to have my babies?”

  “Sure! Scientists talk of a procedure where they could implant an embryo in the lining of a man’s intestines, I’ll stay home and have babies, cook your meals, go to your faculty parties and flirt with the chairman of your department.”

  “The chairman of my department would love that.”

  “Let’s pack up and leave right now.”

  She has her head on his chest, listening to his heartbeat. “I can’t. I have to keep my promise to Claire.”

  “When we get back to New York I’ll talk to some people, I still have contacts. We’ll get Quinndell investigated, I promise. In fact, it’ll be better if it’s done by an impartial third party.”

  “An impartial third party won’t do what’s necessary. Claire tried impartial third parties.”

  “You can’t let your life be ruled by a promise —”

  “He raped me.”

  Lyon says nothing.

  Claire can hear his heartbeat quickening as she speaks. “I was fourteen. I went to him for something routine, a school check-up or an inoculation, I don’t remember. A lot of this I’ve blocked out completely.”

  “Why in God’s name would your grandmother let you go to Quinndell?”

  “John, this was years before she suspected him of doing anything to those babies. I’m not even sure she had worked with him at that point. And Claire never knew this happened, I’ve never told anyone until now, until you.”

  But Lyon isn’t sure he wants to be the one to hear it.

  “There wasn’t a nurse with us in the examining room, I knew that was wrong but I didn’t have the nerve to question a doctor. I was only fourteen. He had my feet up in the stirrups with a sheet covering … covering what he was doing.”

  “Jesus.”

  “He never even acknowledged what he was doing, like it was all part of the examination or like I wouldn’t know what was happening down there under that sheet. He kept looking off into the distance, I was watching his eyes, he had dark eyes and … It hurt.”

  “God, I’m sorry.”

  “I’m sorry too. I’m sorry I let him get away with it and I’m sorry he messed up my life. I was shy to begin with but what Quinndell did to me, that’s when I first learned how to go dead inside.” Claire is crying. “Do you understand now why I believe Claire’s accusations against him? He ruined my childhood, John, and he killed my grandmother — I’m not leaving here until he’s dead or in jail.”

  They are quiet for a long time — then Claire bolts up in bed.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Shh.”

  “What is it?” he asks.

  “Do you hear a baby crying?”

  Lyon listens. “No.”

  “I heard a baby crying.”

  “Come on, Claire, don’t start on —”

  “I’m not starting on anything!” She looks terrified. “I heard a baby crying!”

  Lyon gets out of bed, slips on his trousers, and walks to the window. “Jesus Christ!”

  “What?”

  “It’s that little … man who peeked in the window! He’s standing out in the woods, just standing there watching the cabin.”

  “Does he have a baby with him?”

  “I don’t know.” Lyon grabs his clothes. “You stay here.” He runs barefoot through the cabin, to the front door, opening it and rushing out into the arms of the fattest man he’s ever seen in his life.

  CHAPTER 25

  Lyon is being pressed aga
inst an expanse of uniform that looks as if it was manufactured by a tent and awning company. Above the left pocket is stitched the word Deputy. Above the right pocket, in the same bowling shirt stitching, is Carl.

  After struggling out of those massive arms, Lyon staggers back to see how many people are stuffed in that uniform.

  “In a hurry, asshole?” the fat man asks, even his speech seemingly garbled by an excess of flesh.

  Lyon tries to look around him. “Did you see someone out in the woods there?”

  Carl turns ponderously toward the forest and then back to Lyon. The deputy says nothing.

  “And where’s your car? I have to drive an hour from town to get up into these mountains, but everyone else keeps showing up here without a vehicle.”

  Carl doesn’t comment on that either.

  Lyon steps back for another look. “So I finally get to meet Le Grand Carl I’ve heard so much about — and there’s so much of you to hear about too.” Lyon isn’t sure why he’s acting so jocular. Nerves — or maybe it’s because of Claire. “What can I do for you, Deputy?”

  “Come to see that nigger woman you got.”

  When Carl takes a step toward the door, however, Lyon puts himself — shoeless, pants unzipped, shirt unbuttoned and hanging out — in the way. Feeling small and frail next to Carl, Lyon is surprised when the deputy retreats.

  “Sorry, Deputy, but you can’t enter my residence without a warrant or probable cause, in pursuit of a felony suspect with reason to believe he might destroy evidence or endanger someone — it’s a constitutional thing.” Why am I being such a smartass?

  But Lyon’s comments seem not to register with Carl, who removes a foil pouch from his pants pocket, takes out a plum-size handful of black tobacco, which he stuffs with some difficulty into his surprisingly small mouth.

  “Nice touch.”

  Carl offers an incomprehensible reply, working the plug to his cheek and then spitting. “Come to see that nigger woman you got.”

  “So I gather.” Then Lyon connects with Carl’s sunken eyes, like something feral in there, staring out from a cave — Lyon realizing that this man, fat and stupid though he be, is not someone to be treated frivolously.