In Dark Places

Chapter Twenty

Robin let Gray adjust to the trancelike state initiated by the bilateral magnetic fields. In the dim light cast by the computer screens, she could see that his eyes were half-closed, his mouth agape. His breathing was slow and regular.

When she thought he was ready, she spoke to him again.

"All right, Justin. Now it's time to leave the beach."

"Like it here amp;" he murmured.

"I know you do, but we have work to do. I want you to go to your parents' apartment, the one on Pine Street. The place where you grew up."

When working with Brand, she had guided him to act as an observer. Gray, less resistant, could relive the experience directly.

"Okay."

"Are you there?"

He nodded.

"Last time, you told me that your father used to punish you. I want you to go to a time when you were punished. Can you do that?"

"Don't wanna."

"Can you?"

A long pause. "Yeah."

"Are you with your father now?"

"I'm with him. I'm with my old man."

"What's he doing?"

"Yelling."

"That's all? Just yelling?"

"He's got amp; it looks like amp; oh, hell, he's got his damn belt off."

"Does he hit you with the belt?"

Snort of derision. "I wish."

"What, then?"

"He uses it to tie me amp;"

"Tie you up?"

"Tie me to amp;"

"To what?"

"The radiator. He ties the belt 'round my waist, hooks it to the radiator. That's just for starters."

"What happens next?"

"My hand."

"What about your hand?"

"My left hand."

"What about your hand, Justin?"

"He puts it on the radiator. He's got his shirt off. It's wrapped over his hand like a glove. He grabs me by the wrist and amp;"

"He presses your hand to the hot radiator?"

Gray winced, feeling it now. "Hurts like a motherfucker. That's what I tell him, them exact wordshurts like a motherfucker."

"What happens when you say that?"

"He says, my old man says, 'Watch your mouth.'"

"And your hand amp;?"

"He's holding it down."

"What's he saying now?"

"He don't want me shoplifting again."

"What did you shoplift?"

"Don't remember."

She tried again. "What did you shoplift?"

"Some fuckbook. Penthouse, Hustler, some shit like that. Would've paid for it, but they won't sell it to you if you're not eighteen."

"How old are you?"

"Thirteen. Christ, my hand hurts."

"Is this the first time he's hurt you?"

"Fuck, no."

"First time with the radiator?"

"No."

She remembered something he'd said in a previous session. "You told me about a baseball bat amp;"

"That's later. For taking his car without asking. He tries to bust my kneecaps. But he misses me, 'cause he's drunk."

She returned to the radiator incident. "Is he drunk now?"

"Maybe he's had a snort, I can't tell. Doesn't matter."

"Why doesn't it matter?"

"He's like this all the time. Drunk or sober, makes no difference."

"Has he let go of your hand?"

"By now amp; yeah."

"Badly burned?"

"Blisters all over."

"You've got serious burns."

"Damn straight."

"Does he take you to a doctor?"

"Not him. My mom does."

"Your mom?"

"To the ER. She tells 'em I was playing around the radiator. They bandage me up."

"What do you say about playing by the radiator?"

"I don't say shit."

"Nobody asks you?"

"Nobody cares."

"If they had asked"

"I'd tell them, yeah, I was playing around. I'm a stupid kid. I hurt myself like kids do."

"Who are you protecting? Your dad?"

"Fuck him."

"Your mom?"

"Fuck her, too. She married the asshole."

"Who, then?"

"I don't know. I guess amp;"

"Yes?"

"You don't squeal. Not on family. Even when they treat you like shit. And anyway amp;"

"Yes?"

"I did shoplift the goddamn magazine."

"So you had it coming?"

"I don't know."

"Does your hand heal okay?"

"Pretty much. Thumb's a little fucked up. Nerve damage, maybe."

She let him rest for a minute or two. His breathing, which had grown rapid and shallow, slowed and deepened as he relaxed. She thought about what he'd told her and what it might mean. An idea occurred to her.

"Can we go to one more place?" she asked.

"What the hell." A smile touched the corners of his mouth. "Might as well rack up some frequent-flyer miles amp;"

"You have a lot of tattoos, Justin."

"Ain't they pretty?"

"Some look professional."

"They are."

"Where'd you get them done?"

"Wild Ink."

"Where's that?"

"Hollywood. Ernesto works there. Ernesto's a fuckin' artist."

"Then that's where we'll go. We're in that tattoo parlor. You're in the chair, and Ernesto is working on you."

"Okay."

"Needle in your flesh. How does it feel?"

His shoulders lifted in a shrug. "Hurts."

"Hurts how? In what way?"

"Burns."

"Tell me what you're feeling right now."

"Needle going in. Hot wire in my skin. And amp;"

"Yes?"

"And I like it."

"Do you?"

"I like to feel the burn."

"Is that why you're at the tattoo parlor?"

"Yeah. Don't even want another goddamn tattoo. All I want is amp;"

"What?"

"The pain."

"Why do you want pain, Justin?"

"Makes me feel amp;"

"How does it make you feel?"

"Strong."

"Why?"

" 'Cause I can take it."

"Why do you have to take it?"

A slow shrug of his shoulders. "That's life."

"Life is pain?"

"Shit, yeah."

"Is that the way life should be?"

"It's the way it is."

"Is it fair? Or unfair?"

"It's life. Fair ain't got nothing to do with it."

"Your father mistreated you, Justin."

"I guess."

"He abused you."

"He fucked with me, yeah. So what? Everybody fucks with everybody."

"You were only a kid."

"So?"

"Is it wrong to hurt a kid?"

"I know where you're going, Doc. Fuck you."

She'd lost him.

She had hoped to make him see that his violence against teenage girls was, in part, a reaction to his own father's violence against him. It was the kind of insight that could be accepted more readily when the mind's defenses were lowered in the MBI trance. But he wouldn't go there. He wasn't ready.

"All right, Justin. Back to the beach. Rest a minute."

She wrote up her notes, using a pen with a built-in flashlight because she didn't want to turn on the room lights until he was out of his trance. After a short time she told him that he would be waking up. She powered down the MBI appliance, then checked the record of the session. Time: nineteen minutes. MBI at 80 percent motor threshold, 60 percent of the coils engaged.

Behind her, she heard Gray stir.

"How are you feeling?" she asked without turning.

"Woozy. What'd I say?"

"What do you remember?"

"I can never get a straight answer from you, can I, Doc?"

She saved the record of the session to a CD. "We talked about your father. He used to punish you. Burned your hand."

"Fuck, yeah. That's right."

He seemed to be shifting in his chair, unusually restless. Maybe the memory had disturbed him more than he'd let on.

She ejected the CD from the tray and slipped it into a plastic case. "What he did to you was wrong. He hurt youand ever since, you've been hurting others and yourself."

She labeled the disk, using her flashlight pen.

"That's the way I like it," he said.

"Is it, Justin?"

"Yeah, Doc. It's what I live for."

Something in his voice made her swivel in her chair, turning toward him, and then there was a solid smack against the side of her heada dazzle of light and delayed pain, and with curious detachment she had time to think that he was loose, he'd freed himself.

Another blow stunned her. She toppled backward off the chair onto the carpet, knowing she had to scream for help, but before she could, he pressed his hand over her mouth, and in the light of the flashlight pen she could see his face.

One last impact, his fist against her temple, a new eruption of brightness, and then a high humming wave carried her away.