22: Final Showdown

<body topmargin=0 leftmargin=0 marginheight=0 marginwidth=0> <table cellpadding=0 cellspacing=0 border=0><tr> <td valign="top" colspan=2 height=90 BGCOLOR="#CC9900" TEXT="#080000" bgproperties="fixed" background="047005a0dwnjzk.gif"> <div> <A HREF="index.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="Cassies Writing"><U><B>home</B></U></A><B>     | </B><B> </B><B> </B><B>  </B><FONT SIZE="5" COLOR="#FFCC66" FACE="Arial" ><B>Cassie's Writing</B></FONT></div> <div> <A HREF="id76.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="20: Kitcheners Strategy"><U><B>20:  Kitchener's Strategy</B></U></A><B>   |   </B><A HREF="id79.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="21: Defensive Maneuvers"><U><B>21:  Defensive Maneuvers</B></U></A><B>   |   </B><B>22:  Final Showdown</B><B>   |   </B><A HREF="id81.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="23: The Ceremony"><U><B>23:  The Ceremony</B></U></A><B>   |   </B><A HREF="id82.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="24: Aftermath"><U><B>24:  Aftermath</B></U></A><B>   |   </B><A HREF="id83.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="25: Evil Ever After"><U><B>25:  Evil Ever After</B></U></A></div> <div> <A HREF="id51.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="Taking Wooden Nickels"><U><B>Taking Wooden Nickels</B></U></A></div> <div> </div> </td> </tr><tr> <td valign="top" width=210 BGCOLOR="#FFFFFF" TEXT="#080000"> <div> <B>22:  Final Showdown</B></div> <bR> </td> <td valign="top" height=390 BGCOLOR="#FFFFFF" TEXT="#080000"> <div>      When they returned to the house, they went back to the kitchen and found Mrs. Cleary with the two white-faced, frightened children.  Mary Jane ran to Quentin, reaching up with her arms. She didn't seem to notice or care about the blood on his shirt. He picked her up and held her tightly.  Eddie stood up, shocked at the sight of their clothing.  Mrs. Cleary had turned toward them, wringing her hands.  "It's all right, honey," Quentin soothed Mary Jane.  He was also addressing Mrs. Cleary and Eddie.  "Your mommy is going to stay in the hospital for a little while so that the doctors can take care of her."</div> <div>      "Why did she do it, Uncle Frank?" Eddie asked, bewildered and hurt.</div> <div>      "She's been unhappy for a long time, Eddie," Quentin answered truthfully.  "I guess it was all too much for her--your grandfather dying and all..."  He stopped.  He didn't know if Eddie knew that his father was gone.</div> <div>      Apparently he didn't, because the boy asked:  "Do you know where my father went?"</div> <div>      Quentin was relieved to be able to tell the truth:  "No, I don't know where he is."</div> <div>      "They've been fighting a lot lately," Eddie explained, struggling not to cry.  "Will she be all right, really?"</div> <div>      "She's not going to die, you don't have to worry about that," Quentin assured him, becoming somewhat evasive.  Just what was "all right" anyway?  He shifted Mary Jane so that he could look at her.  She hadn't said a word, but she'd been crying hard recently; her eyes were red and swollen.  "Would you like to go and visit Mrs. Cleary's house for a while?"</div> <div>      She looked very solemn, studying him closely.  "If you need me to, I do."  Perceptive child, Quentin realized, surprised.  "Yes, I do.  Can you pack an overnight bag for yourself, or do you need help?"</div> <div>      "I can do it."  </div> <div>      Quentin hugged her, hard.  "That's a good girl."  He put her down and looked at Eddie.  "You don't mind going with Mrs. Cleary, do you?"</div> <div>      Eddie looked at the housekeeper a little doubtfully, but he said, "I guess not.  When can I see my mother?"</div> <div>      "Later, Eddie.  When the doctors say it's okay.  Would you go and get what you need?"</div> <div>      Eddie nodded.  He took Mary Jane's hand, and they went up the back stairs.</div> <div>      "Puir lambs," Mrs. Cleary mourned, wringing her hands.  "What caused Mrs. Billings to do such a thing?  And where is Mr. Billings?"</div> <div>      "He's gone--I'm not sure where, and I'm not sure he went willingly," Quentin answered.  As Mrs. Cleary's eyes widened, he went on urgently, "Mrs. Cleary, this is very important.  I need you to take Eddie and Mary Jane away from here.  Take them to your house--or wherever you think they'll be safe.  Don't go to the hospital, and for God's sake, don't come back here until I tell you to."</div> <div>      Mrs. Cleary nodded, her normally ruddy face becoming white as chalk.  "Frank, tell me, please--is it that Al?  And that horrible man in black?"</div> <div>      "Yes," Quentin answered honestly.  "That's why it's important you stay away, do you see?  And if you feel there might be any danger to the children at your house for whatever reason--go somewhere else, do you understand?"</div> <div>      "I believe I'll take the chilthern with me to Joliet straight away," Mrs. Cleary said immediately.  "Me daughter is there, an she'll be havin some clothes an things I could fit into, I'm supposin.  I don't believe I'll go home atall."  She looked at Quentin steadily, her usually kindly expression grim with determination.</div> <div>      "Would you write your daughter's phone number down and give it to my wife, please?"</div> <div>      "Sure, an I'll be glad to be doing that, Frank.  And what d'ye think you'll be doin, then?"</div> <div>      Quentin and Beth exchanged a look.  Mrs. Cleary didn't miss the expression of fear in their eyes.  He took her shoulders gently.  "I'm thinking you're better off not knowing," he said softly.</div> <div>      The two children came back into the kitchen with small suitcases.  Mary Jane carried a doll with her.  Mrs. Cleary put her arms around Quentin and hugged him tightly.  "Tis a good man ye are, Frank.  And it's God's blessings I'll be asking put on the both of yez."</div> <div>      "Thank you," he whispered.  He picked Mary Jane up, and her little arms went around his neck.  "You be a good girl for Mrs. Cleary, all right?  And I'll be talking to you very soon."  She nodded, sniffling.  "Here, don't cry, please, Mary Jane.  Everything is going to be all right."  Beth stroked the little girl's arm and smiled at her reassuringly.  Quentin set her down again and Mrs. Cleary took her by the hand.  Quentin shook hands with Eddie, who was still fighting tears.  "Take care of them, Eddie, I'm counting on you."</div> <div>      "We best go now, eh?"  Mrs. Cleary said, clearing her throat.  Her eyes were filled with tears as she looked at Quentin and Beth.  "I'll not be saying goodbye to ye.  I'll simply say, I'll see you after awhile."  </div> <div>      As Quentin and Beth watched Mrs. Cleary leading the children through the backyards of the houses next door, he said worriedly, "I hope they'll be all right.  I wonder if we shouldn't have driven them to the train station."</div> <div>      "We would've had to change first," Beth pointed out.</div> <div>      "Yes," he said and sighed.  "I think they'll be all right.  Come on.  Let's see if Nora has anything you could wear."</div> <div>      The sight of the master bedroom was dreadful.  The broken window with shards of glass was an ugly reminder of what had happened, as was the spattered blood on the wall and on the bed.  Beth shuddered and turned away, opening the closet.  Quentin put his hands on her shoulders gently.  "I forgot to tell you how wonderfully strong you were during all that," he said.</div> <div>      "I'm a nurse.  I'm trained to," she answered shortly.  He felt she was underplaying her feelings about what had happened.  </div> <div>      "I was scared to death," he said.  "You must've been, too.  It must've been hard to stay as calm as you did."</div> <div>      "It was," she admitted.  "I learned how to detach myself during emergencies so that I can act.  Otherwise, I wouldn't be able to think or do anything at all to help."  She'd been going through the closet, searching.  Nora had a lot of clothes.  The further Beth went back into the closet, the smaller the clothing sizes became.  She found a summery dress that didn't look terribly out of date.</div> <div>      "She sure has a lot of clothes," Quentin commented.</div> <div>      "It looks like she kept everything," Beth said, stripping off her bloody clothing in the closet.  "Perhaps the poor thing was hoping to be able to fit into one of these dresses again."  The dress was a little loose but not ridiculously so.  Beth was satisfied.  She looked at her husband.  "Now, you.  You still have clothes here, don't you?"</div> <div>      "Sure.  I'll show you my room.  You need to know the layout of the house, Beth.  I'll give you a tour, okay?"</div> <div>      Beth bit her lip and nodded.  As the left the closet, Quentin began to pull his clothes off.  He threw the bloody shirt and pants on the floor.  They closed the door on the ugly reminder of what had happened. He took her to the playroom, the bathroom, and the childrens' rooms.  Finally, he brought her to his room.</div> <div>      The first thing he did when they went into the room was open the windows to let in some air.  As Beth stood looking around the room, he went to the closet, pulling out a fresh shirt.  He located another pair of pants, too.  "There doesn't seem to be very much of yourself here," she commented.</div> <div>      "No, it never felt like home here," he agreed.  "I do have my own radio here, and a guitar."  He indicated the radio on top of the dresser.  His guitar was standing upright in the closet.  "I have a couple of the new records, too, but no phonograph.  Nora and Phillip have one, but they don't care for this music--I mean, Nora doesn't."</div> <div>      "How do you know?"</div> <div>      Quentin stopped, surprised.  "I don't," he said wonderingly.  "I can't believe how stupid I am somethimes!  I never asked her."</div> <div>      "But you know Phillip listens to this--who is Louis Armstrong?"  Beth found the small stack of records leaning against the dresser and picked one up to look at it.</div> <div>      "He plays the cornet.  I know Phillip listens to this kind of music because we used to go to the Gardens together--to hear the band and listen to CaraLinda."</div> <div>      "And pick up whores?"</div> <div>      Quentin felt his face flaming.  He looked away, ashamed.  "Yes," he muttered.  "Nora was right about him--he's like a stud bull in heat or something."  He felt her arm slip around his waist.  With her other hand, she turned his face back to hers.  She looked serious, but not angry.  "I won't do that to you, Beth," he swore.</div> <div>      She hugged him.  "It's so sad what happened to them.  We must work hard and not let that happen to us, Quentin."  He hugged her back, tightly.</div> <div>      He pulled her to him, holding her closely so that he wouldn't be able to see her face.  "Beth," he said softly.  "You have to remember where this room is, this room more than any other.  This is probably where we'll be."  He felt Beth start to pull away but he wouldn't let her go.  He didn't think he could look her in the eye.  "No, just listen, my love.  I don't know how much time we'll have for you to get CaraLinda and the gypsies.  When you come back, though, you better look here first.  Please don't say anything.  I don't think I can bear it."</div> <div>      "All right," she said tearfully.  He let go of her and took her by the hand.  </div> <div>      He led her out of his room and back into the hallway.  "Let me show you the rest of the house now--downstairs.  Then we'll go to the library and I'll call Petofi."</div> <bR> <div>      They both stopped, astonished, at the entryway to the library.  There, on an easel in the middle of the room, was a charcoal drawn portrait of Bartelli.  "Ugh!" Beth cried, shuddering.  Quentin circled the portrait, stunned. "How did that get here?"  Beth voiced his question.  He looked at her, confusion and bewilderment in his eyes.</div> <div>      "Angelique told me she had it.  Maybe she brought it here," he said slowly, beginning to feel hopeful.  "If she did, maybe she's around and plans to help us."</div> <div>      Beth shuddered again.  "I don't know if you should trust that woman, Quentin!" she objected.</div> <div>      "I know," he said softly, remembering what Angelique had done to Beth.  "She's very unpredictable, but she's only been helpful since I called her back this time.  She says she came back to help me get rid of Bartelli once and for all."</div> <div>      "Why should she care about him?  Does she hate him so much?"</div> <div>      "She hates what he represents.  She says she was raped by someone like him when she was a young-`little more than a child', she said."  He noticed that Beth had begun visibly shivering and had blanched.  She looked like she might faint, so he went to her and held her in his arms.  "What is it, Beth?  What's wrong?"</div> <div>      "You know that saying--'a goose walked over my grave'?  I just felt a sudden chill--like death.  I thought the strangest thing, just now.  What if someone like Petofi is an ageless evil being that goes on and on?  What if he was the one who attacked Angelique--as someone else?"</div> <div>      Quentin was shocked.  "Whatever makes you think that?"</div> <div>      "I don't know.  But, darling, what if he can't be destroyed?  What if an evil thing like that just goes on existing, living on in other people, century after century?"</div> <div>      "Christ, Beth, don't even suppose such a thing!"  Quentin exclaimed, horrified.  The thought had never occurred to him before.  It was a terrifying concept, one that he didn't even want to entertain.  He held her until they both stopped shivering.  When they had calmed down, he said softly, "I better call him."</div> <bR> <div>      Quentin spoke to Charles Delaware Tate, who insisted that Petofi was not "available".  Frustrated, Quentin said, "All right, Mr. Tate.  Just give him this message.  If he wants his damn portrait, he's got to come get it.  I've got it, and I'll be waiting for him."  He gave the Billings' address.</div> <div>      "You are a damn fool, Quentin," Tate said.  "He's not going to like this message."</div> <div>      "Too bad.  I guess I can always hope he's angry enough to kill the messenger, can't I?"</div> <div>      "Go to hell and, by the way, I don't think you'll enjoy your stay there. He bragged to everyone about how he made you scream when he fucked you.  You didn't like it very much, did you?"  He laughed very unpleasantly.</div> <div>      "Did you?" Quentin jeered.  There was a sudden, stunned silence.  Quentin also laughed unpleasantly.  "He doesn't fuck you anymore now that you're an old man and not so good-looking anymore, eh?"  Tate hung up abruptly.</div> <div>      Beth was twisting her ring now, obviously upset by the vulgarity.  "What should we do now?"</div> <div>      Quentin noticed and tried to kid her.  He twisted his ring, too.  "Shall we rub blisters on ourselves until he gets here?"</div> <div>      She stopped abruptly and stamped her foot.  "Stop!  It's not funny!  I'm frightened!"</div> <div>      He put his arms around her.  "I'm scared, too, Beth," he admitted.  "I'm scareder than I've ever been in my life.  I don't think I could stand it if you weren't here with me."  He looked around the room.  "Let's get this room setup.  Why don't you open the blinds?"</div> <div>      As Beth moved to draw the curtains and open the blinds, Quentin moved Bartelli's portrait behind Phillip's desk.  Sunshine streamed into the room-it was a much more pleasant room and would've been a delight to be in if it weren't to be used to confront the evil Bartelli.  Quentin noticed the sunlight fell across the desk and onto the floor in front of it.  He pulled two chairs over, placing them in the light.</div> <div>      Beth gave him a puzzled look.  He began searching the drawers of Phillip's desk.  "What are you looking for?" she asked, moving to help him look on the other side of the desk.</div> <div>      "Something sharp-a letter opener, preferably."</div> <div>      She found it in one of the drawers and held it out to him.  "What is it for?"</div> <div>      "Just something to have-in case I need it," he answered.  He seemed satisfied with the layout of the room.  "I guess now we just wait, my love." He led her to the couch which was against the far wall, and they sat down.     They'd been waiting about an hour and a half when they heard a car pull up out front.  </div> <div>      Car doors slammed.  Beth peeked out the window and gasped.  Quentin knew who it was before she spoke and tried to get his trembling under control.  "It's him--and that's Charles Delaware Tate, isn't it?  And there are four other men!"</div> <div>      "When they knock, perhaps you could answer and show them in here, my love," Quentin said, as calmly as he could. He felt very cold all of a sudden. He hoped his teeth wouldn't start chattering when they came in.  He moved to the chair behind Phillip's desk and sat down.  Hands shaking a little, he picked up some of the mail that had been left there.     </div> <div>      Swiftly, Beth bent down to kiss him.  Then she straightened and left to answer the door. He heard Beth opening the door and voices.  He could hear Bartelli's, booming:  "What a pleasant surprise, my dear Beth!  I never imagined to have the pleasure of seeing  your beautiful face again!"  He didn't hear her answer, trying to force himself to remain calm.     </div> <div>      When Beth came to the doorway, he looked up with a nonchalant air.  He appeared to be going through unopened mail, slowly opening an envelope with the sharp letter opener he'd found.  Beth cleared her throat.  "They're here," she said nervously.</div> <div>      "Show them in," he said, feigning boredom.  He studied the envelope he was holding as Bartelli, Tate, and the other four men entered the room.  "Good afternoon.  Won't you have a seat?" he waved his hand at the two chairs in front of the desk.  He kept his eyes on the letter opener.</div> <div>      "Well, good afternoon, my boy," Bartelli was saying in his unpleasant voice.  "It's been a long time.  Too long, my young friend."  He and Tate sat down.  Too late, they realized the sun was shining directly in their eyes.</div> <div>      "I haven't missed you," Quentin said flatly.</div> <div>      "Would you mind drawing the drapes, my boy?  I'm afraid the afternoon sun is rather strong," Bartelli said.</div> <div>      "No, I like it warm like this," Quentin replied.</div> <div>      Bartelli leaned forward, looking momentarily irritated.  "Your manners have not improved much, I see.  Floyd?  Would you be so kind?"</div> <div>      As Floyd moved toward the window, Quentin suddenly put the letter opener to the throat of the man in the portrait.  "I said I want the light," Quentin said sharply.  Floyd stopped.  Quentin looked at Bartelli.  "What would happen if I were to slice through the portrait, Petofi?"</div> <div>      Bartelli actually looked genuinely worried.  He shifted uncomfortably.  "I would say that you would be making a big mistake."</div> <div>      "Why don't you stop me then?  With your hand?"  Quentin pushed the letter opener into the portrait a little.  He was pleased to see Bartelli clutch at his throat uncomfortably.</div> <div>      "I don't use the power of the hand lightly, my dear boy," Bartelli whispered.  "Why don't you take the weapon away and we'll have a pleasant little conversation?"</div> <div>      "Call your dogs off," Quentin snapped.  "Then we can talk."</div> <div>      "All right, Quentin," Bartelli said congenially.  "Floyd, why don't you take Lester, Tony, and Duke to the kitchen and see what refreshments you can find?"  The four hoodlums left the room, one of them leering at Beth in a frightening way as he passed by her.  "Well, my dear boy, as I see it the first issue we need to discuss is the your possession of some stolen property--my portrait."</div> <div>      "Oh, is this yours? I was wondering where it came from.  There must have been some kind of careless error with the handling of the portrait. My, my, I do apologize for the misunderstanding.  I suppose you'd like it back?"  For a moment, Quentin was actually enjoying himself.  Tate looked at him with shocked disbelief.</div> <div>      Bartelli took a cigar out of his pocket, examining it.  He seemed to be enjoying himself very much, too.  "Do you mind?" he asked, holding up the cigar.  Quentin shrugged.  "Of course, I would like the portrait back, Quentin.  It IS mine."</div> <div>      "What will you give for it?"  Quentin was turning the letter opener over and over in his hands, staying very close to the portrait.</div> <div>      "What would you like?"  Bartelli asked, smiling unpleasantly.</div> <div>      Without really thinking about what he was going to say, Quentin pointed the letter opener at Tate and blurted: "I want him to draw a portrait of Beth, like this one."</div> <div>      "Quentin!  No!" Beth cried out.  Bartelli's eyes widened with surprise.  He burst out laughing.</div> <div>      "I'm not going to do that!" Tate sputtered.</div> <div>      "Quiet, Charles!" Bartelli snapped sharply.  He looked at Quentin with interest as Beth continued to protest.  Quentin signalled to her to be quiet.  He leaned back in his chair.  "Interesting request, my boy.  I am surprised you didn't ask for your freedom."  Quentin looked away.  "It's as well you didn't for I would've refused it. I've been lonely for you, dear Quentin."</div> <div>      Beth made an involuntary noise of disgust, and Quentin closed his eyes, shuddering, but just for a moment.  He moved the letter opener a little closer to Bartelli's portrait again.  Difficult as it was, he managed to look at Bartelli coolly.  "Well?" he asked, as if Bartelli hadn't spoken.</div> <div>      "Do you have your sketch book, Charles?" Bartelli asked.  When Tate shook his head, Bartelli snapped, "Go and get it from the car then!"</div> <div>      "You're gonna make me do this?"  Tate protested.</div> <div>      "Indulge me," Bartelli replied with a humorless smile.</div> <div>      Tate got up, glared at Quentin furiously, and left the room.</div> <div> As Bartelli and Quentin continued to stare at each other, Beth moved forward, protesting:  "Quentin, don't do this!"</div> <div>      Quentin turned his attention to her, giving her his most dazzling smile.  "I have to ask you to indulge ME, my love," he said softly.  "In all the years we've been together, I've only had one small picture of you.  Well, now that we're married, I want an original Charles Delaware Tate portrait of my beautiful bride-even just a drawing."  Now he turned his eyes to Bartelli, glowering.  "One like mine, only a drawing instead of a painting."</div> <div>      Bartelli laughed again.  "You are full of surprises, my dear boy!  Why do want that?"</div> <div>      "Because I don't want to spend an eternity alone in hell with a revolting slug like you, Petofi," Quentin answered as coldly and nastily as he could.  Bartelli's expression changed momentarily, and Quentin caught a glimpse of the merciless, cruel person behind the benevolent mask.</div> <div>      The moment was gone and Bartelli was again smiling and jolly.  He laughed again.  "And will this ensure your cooperation?"</div> <div>      "That, and your promise to stay away from any member of my family or any friend of mine, no matter how remote," Quentin said.</div> <div>      "Quentin," Beth protested again.</div> <div>      "Hush," he said sharply.  He looked at Bartelli again.  "Well?  That's what you want, isn't it?  Your portrait--and me."</div> <div>      Tate had returned, still furious, sketchbook in hand.  "I want a charcoal portrait, like this one," Quentin said, indicating Bartelli's picture with the letter opener.  "I don't know what hocus-pocus you need to do it, Petofi, but I want that, too."  Beth had begun to cry.</div> <div>      "No, you must'nt cry, my dear," Bartelli chided.  "That will spoil the portrait.  Why don't you have a seat on that sofa there.  Charles, will you begin please?"</div> <div>      Glowering and muttering under his breath, Tate began to sketch.  Bartelli leaned forward, placing his hands on Phillip's desk.  "You will get a charcoal portrait of your beloved wife, imbued with the same benefits of eternal youth as yours," he stated.  "In return, you will return my portrait to me, unharmed.  You will also place yourself at my beck and call.  Do we understand each other?"</div> <div>      Quentin nodded slowly.  "Yes," he agreed.</div> <div>      "That means that when I feel the urge, I will call you to me and you will service me any way I ask.  As many times as I ask you to.  At any time of the day or night, you will put yourself at my disposal.  Do you understand?"</div> <div>      "Yes," Quentin muttered. He saw Beth react and shook his head at her.</div> <div>      Bartelli noticed and laughed.  "Of course, you'll want to be permitted to maintain normal marital relations with your wife.  I don't object to that as long as it doesn't interfere with my needs. Do you understand?"</div> <div>      The muscles in Quentin's jaw tightened.  "Yes, I understand."</div> <div>      "Do you agree, then?"</div> <div>      "Yes, with the understanding that in return I get Beth's portrait AND you leave my family and friends alone."</div> <div>      Bartelli clapped his hands in delight.  "Splendid!  We have reached a mutual understanding!  Charles, may I see what you have, so far?"</div> <div>      Still muttering, Tate thrust his drawing pad at Bartelli.  Pursing his lips and looking at Beth, Bartelli picked up the pencil and began to sketch a few lines.  "Just a few finishing touches," he said softly.  He looked at Beth again.  She flinched at first, but then she tilted her head back and looked at him with such intense hatred that the pencil stopped moving almost by her will.  "My!  What an expression!  I would like to have captured that! You never looked at me like that before, my dear!  Perhaps you didn't feel you had a reason to." Bartelli laughed, and Quentin was surprised and secretly pleased to see him shift uncomfortably in the chair.  He handed the pad back to Charles.  "Sign and date it, my old friend.  Quentin wants a 'Charles Delaware Tate original'."  Still muttering and cursing, Tate obeyed.  Then he thrust the pad back at Bartelli.</div> <div>      Bartelli looked at Quentin.  "Well.  Here is your portrait.  Give me mine."</div> <div>      "No, give me mine first," Quentin said.</div> <div>      Bartelli laughed.  "Ah! You don't trust me!  We have a Mexican stand-off, Charles.  What shall we do?"</div> <div>      "I don't give a damn," Charles spat.</div> <div>      "We will hand the portraits off at the same time.  Is that agreeable, my boy?"</div> <div>      Quentin nodded.  They exchanged portraits simultaneously.  Quentin looked at his very briefly, long enough to note that Tate had captured all of the beautiful lines and curves of his beloved in spite of his nasty tempter. Carefully, he tore the page out of the pad.  Satisfied, he carefully rolled the portrait and then stood up.</div> <div>      "Now it's time for you to finish fulfilling your end of our agreement," Bartelli said.  He, too, was standing and had handed his portrait to Tate.  Quentin looked at him and saw Bartelli regarding him with anticipation and not a little lust in his eyes. "I feel my need for you--rising," he added.</div> <div>      Beth immediately went to Quentin's side, as if she would be able to protect him.  Quentin pressed the rolled portrait into her hands.  He tried to pull her around to face him, but she was glaring furiously at Bartelli.  "Beth," he said softly.  He was terrified and it took all the strength he had not to show it.  "Beth, look at me!"  This time he shook her a little.  She looked at him, and he tried to communicate with his eyes.  The plan, Beth, remember the plan. "Take it home, Beth," he urged.  Home meant to the gypsies.</div> <div>      She understood, but she didn't want to go.  He tried to push her away from him and toward the door.  "Go, Beth," he urged.  She tried to cling to him, but he shook her off.  Then he grabbed her by the arms and kissed her deeply.  He looked at her again and was dismayed to see that she had the look of a terrified doe about to be run over by a car.  For a moment, he felt despair.  Then she seemed to draw her self together and gave him a calm look.  She even managed to smile.</div> <div>      Quentin took her elbow to escort her to the door.  Holding her head high, she turned and walked with him.  Bartelli stepped in front of them.  "Charming little scene, just charming," he said with a little sneer.  He reached out with his jewelled hand and stroked one side of her face and then the other. He took her free hand in his. "I'm sure that you will not be tempted to speak my name or give away my location because you wouldn't want anything to happen to your beloved husband," he went on as he stroked her face.  "However, should you feel so foolish to do such a thing, you will find yourself unable to say anything to give me away.  You also will be unable to write anything either."  Bartelli smiled maliciously.  "And in exchange for your courteous cooperation, I promise to return your husband in somewhat decent shape, although I will want to reclaim him at my will.  Whether you want him back under these conditions is another matter all together."  He turned to Quentin, grabbed his face tightly between his hands and kissed him deeply on the mouth.  Quentin, though thoroughly frightened and repulsed, didn't move.  Bartelli stepped back and laughed.</div> <div>      Beth was looking directly at him, and the laughter died in his throat.  She looked as if she was going to spit in his face, and Quentin almost spoke up warningly.  Then she said calmly, "No matter what you do to Quentin, he is not the scum you are.  I will always want him back."</div> <div>      Bartelli had begun to laugh again heartily.  "Devoted girl!  Very well, then, run along home to your children!  I won't harm any of you, I assure you--as long as everyone keeps their parts of the bargain!  Pehaps you will see things my way and, in return, I promise you that your little family will live in the utmost luxury!  I seem to remember once you wanted `better' things from life.  Perhaps you still feel that way!"</div> <div>      Beth gave him a furious look.  She seemed about to reply, but the reconsidered.  Holding her head high, she walked out the door.  Bartelli followed her and shut and locked the door firmly behind her. Quentin felt despair.  How would Beth manage to communicate with CaraLinda and Dave now?  Bartelli swung around to face him, and he tried not to tremble.  This, more than anything else, had been the moment he'd feared and dreaded all these months--being alone with him again.  He remembered with deep clarity and detail what Bartelli had done to him and how much it had hurt physically and emotionally.  "You are quite pale, dear boy.  Do you feel faint?"  Bartelli asked, sounding amused.</div> <div>      "No," Quentin managed to say.  He found himself walking toward the door.  "I just need a drink.  Would you like one?  A brandy?"  He glanced at the clock.  It was four. He believed Beth would figure out a way to help him; it would just take longer because of what Bartelli had done. How long would it take for Beth to get to CaraLinda?  Maybe she could just pull her by the arm and make herself understoood that way.</div> <div>      Bartelli put an arm around his shoulder.  "Thank you, my boy, I believe I would.  Charles?"</div> <div>      "No, thank you!" Tate snarled.</div> <div>      "You seem to be having a fit of temper, Charles.  Perhaps you can find a volume here in this nice library to soothe yourself," Bartelli suggested, but it was more an order.  Bartelli walked Quentin into the sitting room and over to the bar.  Shaking, Quentin located the brandy and a couple of snifters.  He hoped he could pour the stuff without his hands visibly shaking.  Before he could open the bottle, Bartelli said, "Bring the brandy along.  Where is the master bedroom?"</div> <div>      "You wouldn't want to see it," Quentin assured him.</div> <div>      "Oh, but I would," Bartelli argued amiably.  He patted Quentin on the cheek.  "Why don't you take me there?"</div> <div>      "Why don't you use the hand to make me do what you want?" </div> <div>      "Because this is ever so much more fun for me, dear boy.  Lead the way."</div> <div>      The man named Floyd opened the door to the kitchen and leaned out.  "Need us, boss?"</div> <div>      "Actually, yes," Bartelli said, half turning.  "I'd like you and Lester to stand watch out in the hall--in case there's any trouble."  He laughed nastily and looked at Quentin.  "I really don't anticipate there will be any?"  Quentin shook his head, unable to speak.  "Take me to the master bedroom, my boy."</div> <div>      Quentin shrugged and led the way upstairs.  Lester and Floyd were the very same two men who'd held him down while Bartelli whipped him.  Having them following him and Bartelli up the stairs had him rattled; perhaps because it was bringing all the memories back he'd tried to keep suppressed all these months.  When he got to Nora and Phillip's room, he indicated the door and shrugged again, showing the men that his hands were full with the brandy bottle and glasses.</div> <div>      Lester obligingly moved forward and opened the room.  Quentin stepped in, followed by Bartelli.  He allowed them to take in the bloody scene.  "My, my," Bartelli commented, impressed.  The other two men said nothing.</div> <div>      Quentin looked at Bartelli with some anger.  "This is Phillip and Nora's room.  You caused this, you know, by sending Nora that picture.  Why did you do it?  And where is Phillip?"</div> <div>      "Phillip is getting his just reward," Bartelli said with a smile, much to Quentin's dismay.  "As for Nora, don't you suppose she was better off knowing the truth?"</div> <div>      "It was cruel," he said accusingly.  "You didn't have to do that."</div> <div>      "Ah, but it was one of a series of steps to bring you back to me, my dear boy," Bartelli replied.  "Don't be too angry with me, Quentin.  Don't you agree that Nora is better off getting the help she needs?"</div> <div>      Quentin looked at him sharply.  "Just how much do you know about Nora?" he demanded.</div> <div>      "I know every little thing that Phillip told me.  I rewarded him well for the information," Bartelli said snidely.  "He told me quite a lot about you, too.  You've been a busy boy, haven't you?  Why did you have Peggy help you set Phillip up to have the picture taken?"</div> <div>      "I wanted to blackmail him, maybe get him to leave Nora.  He was scum," Quentin lied, partially to see what Bartelli knew.  He was rewarded with a sharp slap in the face.  He almost dropped the brandy and the glasses.  </div> <div>      "What kind of a fool do you think I am?"  Bartelli snarled.  "Don't lie to me again, Quentin.  I'll punish you severely if you do. You won't like it, I assure you." He looked around the room.  "Well, I can see you weren't lying about this room.  No, this room isn't conducive to producing a relaxing mood.  Where is your bedroom, then?"</div> <div>      "Down the hall," Quentin replied, shakily.  </div> <div>      Bartelli said suddenly:  "Show me the bathroom first."</div> <div>      Startled, Quentin took them to the bathroom.  He stood in the hallway with Floyd and Lester as Bartelli went in and looked around.  He looked out the window and then back at Quentin, winking maliciously.  "No ledges to perch on," he said with a laugh.  "Nothing underneath but the rose bushes."  He took a bottle of baby oil from one of the shelves.  He looked behind the door and grunted with satisfaction, taking down Phillip's old razor strop.  Stepping back into the hallway, he asked softly:  "NOW take me to your bedroom."</div> <div>      "You planning to shave?" Quentin asked.</div> <div>      Bartelli laughed unpleasantly.  "I'm sure I'll find some use for these."</div> <div>      Dismayed, Quentin took them to his bedroom.  He and Beth had left the door open, and he led them in.  Bartelli looked around approvingly.  He told Lester and Floyd to wait outside and shut the door in their faces.  When Bartelli turned to face him, he hoped to buy time by asking, "What was all that about Beth talking to you about the `better' things in life?  When was that?  What did you mean?"</div> <div>      Bartelli's eyes lit up a little. Get him to talk--that's what Cholly had advised. The question had also seemed to distract his attention from the picture.  "Pour us a brandy, love," Bartelli said, sitting on Quentin's bed.  Quentin turned his back to set the brandy bottle on his dresser.  He grimaced with disgust at the endearment.  His hands were shaking a little as he poured the glasses.  He handed one to Bartelli and took a tentative sip from his glass.  Bartelli patted the bed beside him.  "Don't stand there, boy, sit, sit!"</div> <div>      Reluctantly, Quentin sat at the foot of the bed.  "Are you playing coy with me, Quentin?"  Bartelli asked, chuckling.  "Come and sit by me, my dear."  Quentin moved a little closer, and Bartelli laughed heartily.  "Well, that's all right for now, I suppose. That little conversation occurred soon after you so unceremoniously rejected your beloved."  He laughed unpleasantly.  "She came to me because she was tired of being taken advantage of."  He looked at Quentin closely.  "Tell me, are you interested in the `better' things in life, my boy?"</div> <div>      "Of course," he replied.</div> <div>      "You think you live in luxury now, don't you?  Your family is very rich.  But your family's wealth is a pittance compared with the riches and power I plan to accummulate."</div> <div>      "By being the boss of bosses?"</div> <div>      "To start, yes.  I plan to organize these violent peons into an army serving me.  I will lead them, as Lord Kitchener lead the British Army in triumph in Egypt.  We will control the not only the import and export of alcohol, but also of illegal drugs, prostitution, gambling--and it won't stop there, my boy.  As I organize the rabble into an organized entity, we shall move into all aspects of legitimate businesses.  Do you see the potential for our influence in the stock market and in politics and in world economics?"  </div> <div>      "Legitimate businesses?  What makes you think businessmen are going to respect you enough to do business with you?"</div> <div>      "Don't be so naive, my boy.  Businessmen already do respect me.  My hands are clean--I am the peacemaker, you know.  No one knows who stands in the shadows behind the murdering gangsters.  I am already grooming my generals in New York--the more worthy and intelligent of these hoodlums also stay in the background while their soldiers do their "dirty" business.  We already get along very well with not only the businessmen, but their representatives in Congress.  If you believe otherwise, you are a fool."</div> <div>      Quentin suddenly remembered the guests at Larry's parties. They weren't all gangsters.  The mayor had been there as well as other politicians and many respected businessmen-like Jamison. It was a horrifying thought.  "And these politicians you're getting along with--you expect favors from them?  In return for gifts and favors you do for them?"</div> <div>      "Yes, Quentin.  Imagine the power I have with these men under my control!  That is only the beginning, my boy. I have my eye on several potential candidates with ambitions to the White House. With my man in the White House, imagine the influence and the extent of power I would have on not only in this country but on world affairs!  With my men running big business here, we can control the labor unions-which are, themselves, very powerful entities--and increase our profit margins dramatically.  Think of it, my boy!  It is the business men of the world who determine world policy, notgovernment officials.  The leaders of countries around the world want American money, and that money comes from the richest of Americans--like me.  With my money--my allies' money--and the influence of the politicans we control, we can easily sway the policies of other countries around the world."</div> <div>      Bartelli's eyes were bright with ambitious anticipation.  "Now, suppose there is a a government that does not fall into line with what we want?  What do you suppose we can do?"</div> <div>      "Withhold financial support of course,"  Quentin answered.  "But suppose it's a country that doesn't need your money?"</div> <div>      Bartelli laughed contemptuously.  "You are naive, boy.  I will have to educate you so that you have a more worldly point of view.  I'll tell you what I can do with an uncooperative government--we can squash that country like a bug."</div> <div>      "But this is the United States," Quentin objected.  "This country wouldn't do that."</div> <div>      "As it stands now, no, it wouldn't.  But that is because foolish men are in office, Quentin.  They would need to be replaced with forward thinking men, men who think as I do. And we would ensure that we are followed by people who also think as we do. And what would that mean for you and your family?  Well, you would have whatever you want, whatever you need.  All in exchange for sexual favors.  You can travel the world.  Send the children to the finest schools anywhere in the world you want.  You've owned an airplane?  I'll give you an air force."  Quentin had been listening with increasing horror, especially with regard to Petofi's political ambitions.  The frightening thing was:  it was all possible if he retained his power!  "You look quite overcome, dear boy.  Would you like another drink to calm your nerves?"  Quentin noddded speechlessly.</div> <div>      Bartelli went to Quentin's dresser, refilling their glasses with brandy.  Quentin thought briefly about jumping him for behind but realized that would be an exercise in futility with those men standing outside.  This time Bartelli sat right next to him so that their knees touched.  Quentin gulped the drink first, then slowed down and sipped at it.  If he could continue to prolong this...he missed something Bartelli said.  "I'm sorry.  What?"</div> <div>      "Why are you distracted? Pay attention!"  Bartelli said irritably.  "I merely mentioned that I already have connections among those who believe in the purity of the white race.  You and I, Quentin, and that beautiful wife of your. An army of these believers would wipe out...say the gypsies...in a matter of weeks."</div> <div>      Quentin gulped the brandy again to keep from jumping, wondering if Bartelli knew that CaraLinda was a gypsy. Phillip didn't know; he wasn't sure about Capone. Bartelli's ideas were repulsive as well as terrifying.  If he was talking about the Klan, he would be tapping into a powerful and dangerous resource.  "Do you have friends in the Klan, then?" he asked.</div> <div>      "But of course, my boy.  Not just the Klan.  Shall I tell you a secret, then?  I think you are bright, and I would enjoy having someone of intelligence to confide in.  Charles has been good company but he's become grumpy in his old age."</div> <div>      "He was always grumpy," Quentin muttered.</div> <div>      Bartelli laughed and slapped his knee.  "Charles is a jealous person.  He doesn't get over his attachments easily--I believe he still detests you because of Amanda Harris.  That's a long time to hold a grudge!"  He was looking at Quentin a little too closely for comfort.</div> <div>      Keep him talking!  Act impressed--that will flatter him.  Inexplicably, Quentin heard Beth's voice in his head, reading: 'if your enemy is hungry, feed him; if he is thirsty, give him drink; for by doing so, you will heap burning coals upon his head.' He realized suddenly that Bartelli looked like a starving man at a banquet table.  Cholly was right, he thought--he likes to brag, and by offering him that chance, it's like offering him food and drink! Quentin cleared his throat and asked, "You were going to tell me a secret?"     </div> <div>      "Do you know what inflation is, my boy?" Bartelli asked, looking gleeful.</div> <div>      "Not really," Quentinlied, hoping Bartelli would want to explain it.     </div> <div>      "It is an economic condition brought about when prices go up and, at the same time, the amount of money circulating and credit extended increases proportionally.  The more money that circulates, the less it buys.  You see?  That is the condition now in a country like Germany.  Do you understand?"</div> <div>      "Yes," Quentin knew enough about what was going on in the world to know that Germany was having a hard time paying off its punitive war debt.  "So?"</div> <div>      "I'll tell you in a minute.  Do you know what a recession is?"  He did, but shook his head no to keep Bartelli talking.  "All right, it is a period of economic inactivity, which also causes financial difficulty for a country and its people.  England, France, and Italy are in the middle of recurring recessions. Germany is virtually bankrupt. The Russian people are starving and looking to the world for help with food.  Now, what does all that mean?"  Quentin shrugged.  "Use your imagination, boy!"</div> <div>      "Countries in trouble like that would welcome your money?" Quentin guessed.</div> <div>      "Very good, dear Quentin!  Not just a government--there are certain individuals I am keeping my eye on as well. I have strong ties with the fascist leader in Italy, of course--where many of our 'friends' were born.  Although I have high hopes for that gentleman, there is another one that I am putting my money on--and behind.  He is a disgruntled minor government employee, currently imprisoned in Germany for trying to start a group similar to our Ku Klux Klan."</div> <div>      "You believe you can make a con a political leader?" Quentin asked, showing his incredulity, to keep Bartelli going.</div> <div>      "I can do whatever I like, my dear.  By the time this man is released from prison, his countrymen will have had enough of their severe economic hardship.  They will not only listen to Herr Hitler's message, they will eagerly embrace it."  Bartelli's voice dropped down.  "At the same time, this country will enter its own period of severe recession.  You have lived through recessions before, my boy, but this will not be like any you've experienced in your life."</div> <div>      "What for?"</div> <div>      "To make the world ripe for war."  Now Bartelli's eyes were gleaming.  Quentin had seen a similar gleam in Beth's eyes--and those of Angelique and other women he'd been with--when they were in the throes of an orgasm.  It was scary to see that look on his face.  "It would be interesting to see if I can turn events my way.  Even if I cannot--no matter!  There is a great deal of money to be made from a war--it is the most profitable venture of all!"</div> <div>      "Not to mention all the death and destruction," Quentin retorted.</div> <div>      "No, let's not mention that, dear boy," Bartelli laughed.  Quentin felt sick to his stomach with all this talk. If Beth could only make herself understood to Caralinda and the rest of her family.  If, if, if....                    </div> <div>       Bartelli put his hand on Quentin's knee suddenly. His power lust had apparently become sexual again. "I was very disappointed that you got away from me.  I'd so looked forward to having you several times over by now.  I will say, though, I am impressed with your ingenuity.  It made me want you all the more, you know.  I like spirit in my young men, Quentin.  Not defiance, you understand?  That would be too much.  But spirit!  Ah, that makes everything more...interesting."  Quentin shuddered.  Bartelli caressed his cheek and then turned his face to his.  "Look at me," he ordered when Quentin looked away.  It was very hard--he felt scared and sick at the same time.  "I to kiss you--now."</div> <div>      Bartelli leaned over to kiss him on the lips, and he forced himself not to move.  He tried to clear his mind, especially of Beth.  He thought about Ocean City, feeling Bartelli probing with his tongue.  He remembered how quickly he'd been overpowered before and thought it would be better to play along.  How much time had passed?  He let Bartelli put his tongue into his mouth, exploring him.</div> <div>      Bartelli's hands came up, holding Quentin's face, stroking his hair and face.  The hands then moved down his shoulders and across his back.  Quentin shut his eyes and thought about the waves in the ocean.  One of Bartelli's hands reached inside his shirt and got stuck.  Bartelli stopped kissing him and said softly, "Take your shirt off, Quentin."  It wasn't a request.  Quentin obeyed him very slowly, partly to waste time and partly because his fingers were shaking so badly he was having trouble managing the buttons.  As he pulled his shirt off, Bartelli sighed heavily and began to nuzzle and kiss Quentin's neck and shoulder.  "Relax, my boy," Bartelli whispered, feeling Quentin tremble.  "I won't be rough with you this time."  He took Quentin's hand and placed it on the bulge between his legs.  "You are willing to cooperate this time so that I don't have to hurt you?"</div> <div>      His voice was not as steady as he'd wanted when he answered.  "I said I would."</div> <div>      "Good boy," Bartelli answered approvingly.  He stood up and unzipped his pants, pulling them down to his knees and exposing himself. He put his hands on Quentin's face again.  "Do it now," he ordered softly.  "On you knees."</div> <div>      Quentin got down on his knees as if he meant to comply.  Bartelli smiled and moved toward him.  Quentin began to open his mouth and noticed that Bartelli closed his eyes.  Quick as lightning, Quentin reached out, grabbed Bartelli's testicles, and squeezed and twisted them as hard as he could.  Bartelli screamed wildly.  He swatted Quentin to make him let go, knocking him over.</div> <div>      Immediately, Quentin was scrambling to his feet, running and laughing wildly as Bartelli sank down to the floor--still screaming in agony.  Quentin had kicked the screen window out and leaned out to see if he could jump cleanly.  Perhaps not--there was hedges underneath.  That would help cushion his landing, although the branches would probably hurt like hell.  He was halfway out the window when he felt hands on him, dragging him back in.</div> <div>      "Going somewhere?" Floyd snarled, pulling him upright.  He punched Quentin in the face, knocking him onto the bed.  Floyd climbed on top of him, pinning his shoulders down.  Damn, damn, damn, Quentin thought, shaking his head to clear it.</div> <div>      Lester had gone to check on Bartelli, who shouted, "Get away from me! Hold him!  Make sure he doesn't move!"</div> <div>      Quentin felt Floyd and Lester haul him back onto his feet.  He looked at Bartelli, doubled over on the floor near the foot of his bed, pants down around his ankles now.  He had his hands over his injured testicles, rocking and moaning.  He began to laugh again, unable to stop.  He was so scared and knew he was in serious danger now, yet it was funny seeing the mighty Petofi this helpless...if only Beth and CaraLinda and Dave and the gypsies could see this right now!  He was becoming hysterical, tears of laughter streaming down his face.</div> <div>      Lester couldn't believe it.  "You crazy son of a bitch," he exclaimed in a somewhat admiring tone.  "You're gonna be sorry."</div> <div>      Quentin's laughter had penetrated through Bartelli's haze of agony.  "Shut him up!" he roared, furious.</div> <div>      Floyd obligingly backhanded Quentin, rocking his head back.  He didn't stop laughing though.  "Look at you!" he taunted.  "You don't look so powerful now!"</div> <div>      "I said shut him up!" Bartelli roared again, his face purpling.</div> <div>      "Kid, why do you got to be so stupid?" Lester gave Quentin a look of pity before clouting him in the face.  Quentin stumbled backward, but the two gangsters hauled him back up before he could fall.  "Why don't you be a good boy and be quiet?"</div> <div>      "Why?  You know what he's going to do to me, don't you?  Why do you work for a man like that?  Or does he do it to you, and you just happen to like it?" Lester didn't appreciate the question.  Without being asked, he hit Quentin again.  Quentin struggled to get away and managed to throw the men off balance.  Lester yanked his hair, hard.  Quentin gritted his teeth and managed to pull free.  "You're not putting on much of a show for your boss man, you know.  How does he reward you anyway, pal?  Blowjob?"</div> <div>      Lester went wild.  He started throwing punches right and left.  Quentin stumbled into Floyd.  As he felt himself falling over, he grabbed Lester's shirt.  All three men went down, crashing onto Bartelli.  Quentin began lashing out with his feet, feeling his shoes making contact with noses and jaws.  He didn't care.</div> <div>      He scrambled to his feet and made a run for the door this time.  Someone grabbed his ankle and pulled, tripping him.  As Quentin fell flat, the force of the fall made him breathless.  He felt someone's knees on his shoulders and felt another clout on his ear and hands pulling the hair on the back of his head.</div> <div>      "You don't like that pretty face of yours so much, do you?" a voice rasped.  "You're gonna lose it now!"  The man meant to smash his face on the floor.</div> <div>      "No, Floyd!  Stop that!  Get the boy up on his feet!"  Bartelli was shouting.  Quentin could feel a reluctant shifting in the weight on his shoulders.  Blood fell in droplets on the floor around him.  "Don't, Floyd, I warn you!"</div> <div>      "Don't be stupid," Lester urged.</div> <div>      Quentin felt himself being hauled to his feet again.  Looking around him, he saw Floyd's ruined face.  His nose was crushed unnaturally to one side.  The smashed nose was bleeding profusely.  Lester had a gash perilously close to his eyelid and looked just as furious as Floyd did.  Quentin grinned in satisfaction.</div> <div>      Bartelli finished pulling his pants back up and fastened them.  He stepped forward and slapped Quentin's face, bringing forth the involuntary tears again.  He must be an expert at where to place them, Quentin thought resentfully.  "Wipe that obnoxious grin off your face," Bartelli snarled, quivering with rage himself.</div> <div>      "Why?  I'm feeling pretty good right now, you bastard."</div> <div>      The door opened, and the other two hoods and Tate stood there.  "You all right?" Tate asked.</div> <div>      "Shut the door but stay nearby," Bartelli ordered.  "I am fine, Charles."</div> <div>      "Hah!" Quentin snorted derisively.</div> <div>      "So, you feel pretty good do you?" Bartelli snarled, retrieving the razor strop.  Tate grinned as he shut the door on them again.</div> <div>      "Oh, another whipping?  They don't work on me, haven't you figured that out?"     "You have a contemptuous, disrectful tone I don't care for," Bartelli said, visibly controlling himself with effort.  He suddenly grabbed Quentin's face.  "I am going to punish you severely for this, Quentin.  I believe you need a visual reminder."</div> <div> Quentin felt a slight tingling in his face and tried to pull away but couldn't.  Bartelli stepped back, glaring at him.  Quentin was about to come forth with another biting comment when, without warning, Bartelli hit him in the face with the strop.</div> <div>      He was so shocked by the pain of the blow, he shut his mouth abruptly.  The stop had caught him full on the face, just below his eyes.  He saw Bartelli drawing his arm back again and turned his head quickly.  The next blow caught him over the ear and across his cheek.  He drew his breath in sharply.  It really hurt.  Floyd and Lester had begun to laugh.  He'd turned his head toward Floyd and now spat into the gangster's face.</div> <div>      That started another wild scuffle.  Floyd let go of Quentin and was throwing punches with his fists.  Bartelli had to physically restrain him. At the same time, Quentin stomped on Lester's foot and then hit him squarely on the jaw.  Lester dropped like a stone.  Quentin had gotten the door to his room open and could see Tate standing there, staring at him in disbelief, when he felt Bartelli's body land on him, slamming him against the door and shutting it.  "You are a singularly troublesome young man," Bartelli said harshly into his hear.  "While I find that exciting, my boy, I cannot condone it."  He pinched Quentin's ear lobe and twisted it painfully.  Bartelli snarled into the injured ear, "Don't forget, boy, that I can find that lovely wife of yours very easily."</div> <div>      "I don't think she's your type," Quentin spat out.  He'd managed not to scream, but Bartelli's threat scared him in spite of his brave front.</div> <div>      "Don't be so sure.  I like women, too.  But perhaps you're right--perhaps my two friends and Mr. Tate outside would be more suited to her.  Would you like to find out?  By the way, Lester enjoys amusing himself with boys--like your nephew, Eddie.  You may have heard that I also happen to like very little girls--blonde, blue eyed girls.  Mary Jane is a little younger than the girls I usually take, but I think she'd do.  And it would be interesting to see what I could do with--ah?  What is the name of that child?  Kathleen?  Now, I realize how little she is, but imagine the damage I could cause-quite extensive, I'm sure."</div> <div>      Quentin had heard enough.  He was horrified and stopped struggling.  "All right, all right," he said.</div> <div>      Bartelli held him firmly by the back of his neck, pulling him back from the door.  "Gentlemen, I believe we have brought my young friend to the necessary cooperative state.  He is an honorable man.  He wants to protect his family.  I think it's safe enough for you two to leave the room again.  Oh, and I suggest you tell Mr. Tate outside that you need the services of a doctor.  I am sure Mr. Tate, Duke, and Tony would be willing to take your places and stand guard."</div> <div>      Floyd growled, glowering at Quentin.</div> <div>      "Now, Floyd, I have told you before that this is a matter between this boy and myself.  He doesn't belong to anyone else but me, and I will not tolerate anyone else touching him.  Do I make myself clear?"</div> <div>      "Yes, sir, Mr. Bartelli," Floyd said reluctantly.</div> <div>      "Your apes are trained well," Quentin said contemptuously.</div> <div>      Floyd snarled.  Bartelli looked extremely annoyed and dug his fingers into the back of Quentin's neck painfully.  "You're extremely foolish, my boy!  You don't know when to shut your mouth, do you?"</div> <div>      "I never did," Quentin answered, continuing to push.  This was exactly what he used to do to drive Edward and Judith to a frenzy.  He would answer back, always seeking to get in the last word, until they went wild with rage.  When they lost control, he knew he'd gained the upper hand. He was hoping it would work again for him.</div> <div>      Bartelli jerked his head toward the door, and the men left quickly with backward glances of rage.  Bartelli shut the door and locked it this time.  He hefted the strop in his hand, then switched it to the other.  He swung it slowly, dangling it so that Quentin could get a good look at it.  "You are going to be sorry now, Quentin," he threatened softly, a small smile on his face.</div> <div>      Quentin shrugged, refusing to give Bartelli the satisfaction of seeing how frightened he was.  "I've been whipped before, many times.  It doesn't bother me. Edward finally gave up."  He gave Bartelli a mocking smile.  Want me to pull my pants down and bend  over for you?" he said casually, keeping the contemptuous tone.</div> <div>      Bartelli hit him in the face again.  Quentin put his arms up to protect his face.  His cheeks were already stinging painfully from the earlier blows, and now his lower lip felt puffy.  He'd expected a ferocious attack but wasn't quite prepared for this.  Bartelli rained hard blows on his arms, shoulders, and ribs, driving him backwards.  Bartelli shoved him hard, and he fell onto the bed.  Quickly, he rolled onto his stomach to protect his face.</div> <div>      "You're a pathetic excuse for a man," Quentin taunted him, gritting his teeth against the pain.  With that, Bartelli redoubled his efforts and struck him even harder.  Quentin was sure that Bartelli would beat him to death if that was possible--and it just might be.  He decided he wasn't doing himself any favors by continuing to taunt the man so he shut up and concentrated on not screaming.  Bartelli's arm had to get tired sooner or later.  He tried to remember Angelique's advice.  Even Beth had said something about distancing herself from difficult situations.  Time to think about Ocean City again...</div> <div>      Suddenly, it all stopped.  Bartelli had his knee on Quentin's back and demanded furiously, "Damn you, Quentin!  Why don't you beg me to stop?"</div> <div>      He couldn't help but laugh at the sound of petulant frustration in Bartelli's voice.  "I won't because you want me to, you sadistic son of a whore!"  He winced as soon as the words were out, fulling expecting Bartelli to start in on him again.</div> <div>      Instead, Bartelli forced him onto his back and climbed onto him so that they were nose to nose.  Bartelli's face was red with lust and rage.  "You remember what I said about your precious wife?  And the children?"</div> <div>      "Yes, I remember.  I'm not fighting you anymore, am I?  I'm keeping my end of the bargain. Do want you want and let them alone."  How much time had passed?  He was struggling to stay composed.  His whole body felt raw and sore, and having Bartelli leaning on him was not only terrifying it was painful.</div> <div>      Bartelli grabbed his chin roughly and pressed his lips on Quentin's again.  With his other hand, he yanked Quentin's hair until more tears came to his eyes.  "You like it rough, don't you?" Bartelli whispered hoarsely.  "That's why you're causing all this trouble--you like it this way?"</div> <div>      "I don't like it any way with you, you pervert," Quentin answered.  Bartelli slapped Quentin so hard, the whole bed shook with the force of the blow. Quentin swallowed hard, fighting the tears, and managed to glare at Bartelli with ferocious hatred.  "I don't understand why you want me so much, but I said I wouldn't fight you. So you go ahead and do whatever you want.  See if you can get it up without making me scream first.  I won't do that, either."</div> <div>      "Perhaps a different approach would be better," Bartelli said malignantly.  "As for why I want you, dear boy, it's because you possess what I've always wanted--your body.  I am not used to having my will thwarted, and I was most annoyed with you when you eluded me before. You might say this is in retaliation for your escape from me all those years ago.  However, as I explained to you before, it is more to my advantage in inhabit this body.  I can still possess yours--in my own way."  He was caressing Quentin's cheek.  "Did I hurt you?  Too bad--such soft, smooth skin, marred now with bruises.  You haven't seen your face yet, have you, my boy?"  Bartelli continued to speak, his voice menacingly soothing.</div> <div>      Quentin shuddered and closed his eyes.  He preferred Bartelli angry and mean--he was frightening, but this way he was much more replulsive.  "I can make you respond to me, you know.  You don't think it's possible, do you?  I can also be very gentle, like a woman.  Roll onto your stomach, dear boy.  I am sure you are uncomfortable lying on your sore back this way."  </div> <div>      Bartelli stood up, and Quentin rolled over onto his stomach again obediently.  He his his face in his arms, slowing his breathing and thinking again about the ocean.  What had Angelique said?  Bartelli could take his body and use it, but not his spirit.  He focused on that thought, and the gentle waves of the ocean.  It was working--he felt almost as if he was rising out of his body, placing himself in an autohypnotic state.</div> <div>      He sensed that Bartelli was rubbing baby oil into his back, using slow, sensuous movements.  "This is better, isn't it, Quentin?" Bartelli asked.  Quentin ignored him, keeping himself focused on the waves and the realization that Bartelli couldn't break his spirit.  "This is nice, isn't it?  You like back rubs, don't you, my boy?  I am beginning to feel myself rise.  I want you to tell me that you want it too."  Quentin didn't respond.</div> <div>      Frustrated, Bartelli put his hands on Quentin's throat and squeezed.  "Tell me that you want it, Quentin!" he ordered insistently.  As he began to feel his airflow being cut off, Quentin returned from his autohypnotic state and grabbed Bartelli's hands, trying to remove them forcibly.</div> <div>      "I won't!" he gasped.  "If you're  gonna kill me, then do it!  And it you're going to rape me, then just do it and get it over with!  But I'm not asking for it, you fucking ape!"</div> <div>      There was a loud crashing sound from downstairs--like the sound of a door being kicked open.  Bartelli let go abruptly and straightened up.  "What's that?" he demanded.  </div> <div>      Quentin scrambled across the bed and rolled off onto the floor.  "Ask me again why I took that picture of Phillip," he called.  He could hear the sound of many feet running up the stairs and down the hall.  There was the sound of scuffling and fighting.  Next came the sound of bodies throwing themselves against the door.</div> <div>      "What have you done?" Bartelli cried out in confusion and anger. Quentin stayed down on the floor, out of sight.  He heard the sound of the door flying open and angry voices filled the room. "Who are you?" Bartelli demanded, and then he cried out in a horrified voice: "NO!" </div> <div>      Above the babble of sound, Quentin could hear her calling:  "Quentin!  Where are you?  Quentin!"  He sat up cautiously, looking around.  Before he could take it all in, he felt Beth jump into his arms, nearly knocking him flat on the ground again.  She was sobbing with relief, throwing her arms around his neck and clinging to him tightly.  He cradled her as her sobs increased in intensity.</div> <div>      "Ssh, I'm all right," he soothed her.  He began to shudder, thinking she'd arrived not a moment too soon.  He began to stroke her hair.  "Beth, Beth," he whispered.  He finally got her to unfasten her arms so that he could look at her.  "Thank you," he whispered.  He put his mouth on hers and kissed her.  Then he pulled her to him tightly.</div> <div>      There was a great deal of movement and activity and shouting going on around them in the room, but Quentin ignored everything and everyone except Beth.  She was returning his embrace, moving her hands down his back.  She pulled back suddenly, looking at her oil-slicked hands.  She looked at him again, shocked.  "Oh, God, what did he do to you?"  She touched his lip and began to cry again.  "I'm sorry I didn't get back faster!  He's hurt you again!  Oh, my God, Quentin!"</div> <div>      "Beth, ssh, he didn't do that, you got here and stopped him from doing that," Quentin reassured her, pulling her back to him and fitting her head on his shoulder.  He rocked her soothingly.  "He beat me, yes, but it was nothing, honest.  He was going to--you know--but you got here in time.  He didn't do it."  He thought he might break down and cry himself.  "How did you get here so fast?" he wondered.  "I didn't think you'd be able to get back until after he--" he stopped, unable to continue.</div> <div>      Beth continued to cry.  She tried to speak but was incoherent.  Quentin heard Dave clear his throat and looked up.  Dave was standing at the foot of the bed, looking down at them.  His eyes were very wet and emotional.  The room was very quiet.  Looking around, Quentin realized everyone was gone--except for one other man.  A stranger, an older man wearing a cleric's collar.  They looked at each other for a moment.  The man's warm brown eyes were friendly behind his spectacles, and he smiled gently at him. Quentin smiled back, wondering who he was, and  then looked back at Dave.  "Thank you," he said softly.</div> <div>      Dave moved closer and sat down heavily on the bed. "Praise God," he said, his voice thick with emotion.  "I stayed behind so I could take pastor back and then drive us to--to--that ceremony.  You really all right, Franky?"</div> <div>      Quentin nodded.  "How'd you get here so fast?  He put a spell on Beth--"</div> <div>      "I know," Dave said, "but she one smart, fine woman, Franky.  Determined, too.  And she loves you.  That's how she done it.  But she should tell it.  You done damn good thinking, Missus Beth."</div> <div>      "Beth?"  Quentin asked curiously.  "What did you do?"</div> <div>      Beth sat up, a little reluctantly, her sobs subsiding enough for her to be able to speak somewhat intelligibly. "That--that animal didn't know that when h-he s-said I c-c-couldn't sp-speak or write about h-him he-he didn't kn-know--"  She stopped, struggling to control herself so she could make sense.  She pulled herself together and gave Quentin a triumphant smile.  "Quentin, my sister Norma is deaf.  I communicate with her with the finger alphabet and some signs.  So when I left here, I went right to the Methodist church for the deaf. It really isn't very far.  And I found the pastor."  She began to laugh.  "That awful creature!  He didn't know I could tell someone!  I told Pastor Brumbaugh--with my fingers--"  Laughing harder, she pointed to herself, crossed her arms over her heart, pointed at Quentin and then made some motions with her hand.  "I love you, Quentin," she translated for herself softly.</div> <div>      Quentin looked at her, dumbfounded, and then roared with laughter.  He pulled her to him again.</div> <div>      Dave was grinning, too.  "Your wife and this here pastor come in, all excited.  She was tellin us you was in danger and needed us to come an help.  When CaraLinda ask her where you was and what was goin on, this pastor come forward.  An we realized he couldn't talk, and we didn't know what we was gonna do.  That man had him a paper, though, and he done wrote everything your wife hand-talked to him."</div> <div>      "My genius!"  Quentin exclaimed.  He was impressed, grateful, and filled with an overwhelming love for Beth.  Then he noticed the pastor still standing there.  "Is that him?"</div> <div>      "Yes," Beth said, a little guiltily.  "I'm sorry, I forgot." She turned and Quentin watched, amazed, as she used her hands to speak to the man.  He signed back to her.  "I explained that we were in time," she said.</div> <div>      "How do I tell him thank you?" Quentin asked, looking at the pastor again.  The man with the kind eyes had very expressive features.  He looked absolutely delighted by everything that had happened.  He nodded slightly.</div> <div>      "Like this," Beth said, showing him.  Quentin copied her movement, and she nodded.  Quentin looked at the pastor and signed "thank you" to him.</div> <div>      "Welcome, don' worry," the man said in a harsh, guttural voice.</div> <div>      Dave motioned to the pastor.  "We'll wait for you in the car," he said tactfully.  Beth signed to the pastor and he gave them the "okay" sign.  When they left the room, she reached up and touched Quentin's face again, almost as if she couldn't believe it.</div> <div>      Quentin couldn't get over his surprise, either.  "Beth?  That's how you could read what Edward was saying so easily?"</div> <div>      Beth swallowed and nodded.  "We used to talk to each other in the dark that way--at night, before we'd fall asleep."</div> <div>      "Oh, Beth, I love you so much!  This really is my second chance," he said, overcome.  Tears flowed, and he kissed her again, holding her tightly to him.</div> <DIV ALIGN="LEFT"></DIV> <div> <A HREF="id79.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="21: Defensive Maneuvers"><U>21:  Defensive Maneuvers</U></A>    <A HREF="id81.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="23: The Ceremony"><U>23:  The Ceremony</U></A></div> <div> <A HREF="id51.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="Taking Wooden Nickels"><U>Taking Wooden Nickels</U></A>    <A HREF="index.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="Cassies Writing"><U>Cassie's Writing</U></A></div> <bR> <bR> </td> </tr></table></body>