Timothy Hallinan - Everything but the Squeal

In front of us was a scene out of the elder Bruegel or Hieronymus Bosch. The trucks gleamed in the distance, wherever they were picked out of the darkness by the bare hundred-watt bulbs under their conical metal dunce's caps. Closer to us-much closer to us-in the center of a spill of light, was a circle of big men. They were spread apart holding hands like a beefy parody of a circle dance, forming a living wall to keep the children inside. The scream had come from the middle of the circle.

“Give her two more, Marco,” Mrs. Brussels' voice said calmly. Then the door swung closed behind us and the men turned their heads to look.

“Where do you want them?” Marco's voice said into the sudden silence. He was invisible, blocked from sight in the middle of the huddle.

“One minute.” Mrs. Brussels came around the outside of the circle and regarded us. “We have visitors.”

She looked cool and imperturbable. Except for the damp perspiration stains on her collar and beneath the arms of her jacket, she might have been behind her desk discussing some baby's future nightmares. “Mr. Ward,” she said, “or, rather, I guess, Mr. Grist. What a shame you weren't who you said you were.”

“One of the great themes,” I said, wiping new blood from my forehead, “the difference between appearance and reality.”

“Welcome to reality,” she said. “You seem to have cut your head. Who's the fat one?” She wasn't talking to me. The Mountain whimpered.

“A clown,” Bruner said behind me. “A walk-on, that's all.”

“What's a walk-on?” She knew less about Shakespeare than Bruner did.

“He walks on and then walks off,” Bruner said, “except he's not going to walk off.”

“Well, good, Max,” Mrs. Brussels said. “You were right. You said he'd show up,” she said, meaning me, “and he did. One for you. Where's Jewel, Mr. Grist?” In the center of the circle, something choked out hurt little sounds.

“Where you'll never find her,” I said.

“Don't bet on that,” she said. “If I really want her, I know where to find her. Bring our friends in, Max. Maybe they'd like to watch.”

“I'd like to watch you die,” the Mountain said shakily.

“Good thing you didn't buy a ticket,” Mrs. Brussels said. “I'd hate to give you a refund. This is a different kind of show. We've got a bad girl here, and she's learning what it means to be bad.” She made an airy gesture with her hand. “Boys?” she said. “Boys, let our guests get a look at what happens to bad little girls.”

The ring of steroid addicts parted reluctantly. One of them looked at me, and recognition struggled with stupidity for possession of his face. Stupid or not, he looked dangerous. It was good old hearty Marty from Cap'n Cluckbucket's.

“I know you,” he said, narrowing his eyes with the effort.

“That makes one thing you know,” I said, swallowing my own blood through the corner of my mouth. “Give you the rest of the year, you might make it into double digits.”

“I know him,” Marty insisted to Bruner.

“Great,” Bruner said. “Get out of the way.”

Marty stepped aside, and the circle broke open as though he'd been the cue they were waiting for. Crowded inside were eight wide-eyed children, six girls and two boys, wide-eyed in a way that suggested nothing but vacancy within. They were wearing bedsheets, insurance, I guessed, against their trying to make an escape.

Aimee Sorrell wasn't among them.

In the center of the circle was a little girl. She might have been fourteen. She was wearing nothing but underpants, and long slashes across her rib cage and her tiny breasts and her thighs wept long red streaks. One of the giants held her by the armpits. Her hands were tied behind her. Her hair and face were wet with tears. Her eyes were enormous and crazed. In front of her was Marco, switchblade in hand. He looked annoyed. He'd been interrupted in the middle of the only thing he truly enjoyed.

“This is Marie,” Mrs. Brussels announced in her third-grade teacher's voice. “What did Marie do, children?”

There was an agonizing pause. Children gathered their sheets around them and looked at the floor.

Mrs. Brussels clapped her hands twice. The children's heads jerked upward. Mrs. Brussels arched an eyebrow in the general direction of her hairline. “What did Marie do?” she demanded.

The children, as a group, emitted a confused sound.

“That's right,” Mrs. Brussels said. “She tried to run away. She talked to the police.” Behind me, the Mountain released a heavy, captive sigh.

“And what happens to children who talk to the police?” Mrs. Brussels said.

“They die,” said a little boy, bolder than the rest. Like the rest, he was wearing a sheet.

“Good, Jamie,” Mrs. Brussels said with horrible approval. “And is Marie dead yet?”

“No,” the children chorused. Other than Marie, the oldest couldn't have been more than twelve. They chorused their answer in a demonic imitation of group spelling exercises. Their eyes were hooded, their last defense against total madness.

“Marco,” Mrs. Brussels commanded, “finish it.”

Marco waved the bright knife in the air. The side of his mouth that was still mobile curved upward and he took a step toward Marie. Marie closed her eyes and let out a scream that would have broken the windows in the Pentagon.

Something hit me on the shoulder, pushing me into the overdeveloped triceps to my left. The Mountain broke through into the circle, scattering children and Mr. Universe contestants alike, and threw his hands around Marco's middle from behind. With an inhuman roar he snatched Marco from the floor and picked him up. Before either Bruner or Belson could do anything, the Mountain had snapped Marco right and left, a terrier with a dishrag. There was a sound like God's fingers being snapped, and Marco's spine broke.

Marco yodeled his anguish, and the Mountain dropped him on the floor like so much garbage and turned to face Belson, who tried too late to stop himself in mid-charge. As Marco twitched on the floor, the Mountain roared again, bent double, and planted his shoulder into Belson's middle with the force of an Alpine landslide. Belson barked again, but this time it wasn't a laugh. He folded in half like a paper airplane, and the Mountain picked him up by the waist and, lifting him over his head, slammed Belson's head against the concrete floor. Belson's body went all loose and floppy, and something gray and puddinglike flowed out of his head. Marco was letting out little yippy moans. The top half of his body still worked. He writhed on the floor like a rattlesnake who'd been run over in mid-spine.

“Get him,” Mrs. Brussels screamed. At the same time, a muscular arm encircled my neck. It belonged to the bozo I'd bumped against. I felt his biceps tighten as he lifted me off my feet. I could hear Mrs. Brussels screaming, a kind of atonal counterpoint to the Mountain's roars and the whimpering of the children. My air was being cut off. As spots began to appear before my eyes, I saw the Mountain put his fist all the way through the face of another of the muscle cases, breaking his neck like a wishbone, and I finally worked the gun out of my pants. Then Mrs. Brussels screamed again, and I saw that the Mountain had lifted another bodybuilder in a sumo hold, lifted him so high that the man's head struck the light hanging beneath the cone and set it swinging wildly, and I finally had the gun and I angled my hand and wrist around so I could shoot the guy with his arm around my throat, and his hold on my neck loosened and I fell to the floor with him on top of me, among the small bare feet of the children, and someone out of somewhere pried the gun from my hand, and I saw Bruner step forward and aim the shiny little automatic with both hands and blow the Mountain's brains out.