Visiting hours were over and Gabriel had officially been in a coma for twenty-four hours, though it seemed so much longer. I sat bedside in the hospital room and tried to ignore the passing of time, fully aware that the longer he remained in a coma, the less chance he had of coming out of it. Hope began to lose its luster. The machines buzzed and beeped, and the fluids coursed through the tubes attached to his body, but he was nowhere to be found. Gabriel didn’t belong here anyway. Hospitals were cold and sterile places. They sucked the life out of the strong and killed the weak. They facilitated infectious disease and encouraged death. There must be some sort of mistake, he doesn’t belong here, time to wake up my angel. I sat bedside, curled up in the deep cushioned chair, waiting.

Michael said I was closed-minded. You could die and go to hell and you’d still deny its existence. I told him I was in hell, and I didn’t see the devil. His dad died when he was thirteen. That’s how he escaped the abuse. The first time Michael spoke about his family, I remember not believing a word he said. His allegations were too outlandish and things like that didn’t happen in real life. I was fifteen at the time and living a life that normal people either ignored or didn’t believe. I had been tied up, whipped and beaten by men of high caliber, and had stolen a baby from hooded Satanists, but I didn’t believe my friend when he confided in me about his past.

Ritual satanic abuse is the term he used. He alleged that his family were seventh generation Satan worshipers and engaged in blood rituals where they sacrificed babies and drank their blood. He described the orgies they would have as part of a sex magic ritual in which he’d been forced to participate as a child. Michael never went into too much detail about his past, but as the years passed I began asking more frequently the sicker he became. I know he suffered a traumatic childhood at the hands of his father, he had the scars to prove it, but his dad died years ago, and dead men don’t attend parties.

How much convincing did I need? Michael sat in Billy’s van with his legs tucked under his chin and reluctantly poured his heart out. Over the past six months while on tour with Limbo Diver, the atrocities of his childhood revolted against years of suppression and made their presence known. It started with the reoccurring visit from a tall man in a shiny dark suit. He appeared backstage after a show in Los Angeles and presented Michael with a video tape.

“Didn’t say anything, just smiled and handed it to me. I knew who sent him though. I didn’t need to watch the damn tape.”

But he did watch it, three days later Michael said he sat alone on the tour bus and popped it in the VCR. The content was the same as what appeared on Gabriel’s copy, and Michael claimed he remembered being there among the robed men as a child.

“They’re coming for us, Ash. It’s the same cult from my childhood. These sadistic perverts are above the law, and they want Gabriel.”

He’d known who they were that night we hid in the closet, feared they’d come after us ever since, before really. Michael always knew he was a target. His father had been the high priest of the cult until he suffered a fatal heart attack, and even as Michael made a break for it and boarded a bus from New Orleans to Houston, he suspected they’d eventually find him. All of this I knew since childhood but never believed until that day in Billy’s old white van.

A few nights later in a hotel room in Seattle, Michael received a second video tape. He found it resting on his pillow but refused to watch it, fearful of what suppressed memory it might reveal or trigger, but curiosity is a powerful force.

“After that second one, it all came back to me. You have no idea, Ash, no idea. Rape and murder, that’s what they’re into, and no one was hiding in the closet to save me. You know what it’s like to watch yourself get raped and tortured, but I couldn’t turn it off. I should have ripped it out of the VCR, but I didn’t, and it all came back to me, and no amount of heroin can make it go away. Lost my virginity to my dad, brother and sister, got raped by strange men on a regular basis, drank some baby’s blood, even munched on some human flesh, but things like that don’t happen in real life, right, Ashley? I say these things for shock value I suppose.”

I responded with an apology. Michael was right. I’d deny the existence of Bigfoot even if I pegged him with my car, but I knew better. I knew what was out there; the beast within all men, lustful and domineering with an insatiable need to conquer. The hidden world of child sex rings, organized kidnappings, drug-trafficking, and prostitution contained many levels. The rich businessmen are close to the top, but the men in robes, the ones hosting the parties, they’re the capstone. As a teenage boy with Michael by my side, I reached about halfway up that pyramid. Rent boys were on the same level with the drug dealers and kidnappers. We all worked for the same boss and were privy to a limited amount of classified knowledge, but very few knew about the men in the hooded robes. They attended the parties but remained in the shadows as onlookers, observers of debauchery and the wickedness of sin, and of pornographic decadence. They were the supervisors of a gateway ritual, one where the tribe danced around the fire chanting and howling and setting the stage until the spirits took over.

I remembered seeing the robed men once, maybe twice, during my years as a prostitute, but Michael was heir to the capstone. He witnessed what happened after the spirits took over and the tribesmen called it a night. That’s when the beast came out to play. When the ritual’s complete and the offering in place, that’s when the masks came off and the blood spilled onto the altar. No rent boy or drug dealer reached that level, and if they did, they didn’t live to tell about it. Michael knew things that made him dangerous. He knew faces, places and names. He could blow the story wide open and people would listen to him. People tended to listen to attractive chart-topping rock stars. Michael had the media at his disposal. He saw it as his most powerful tool.

“At first, I thought they were just after me, but when you told me about Gabe having that tape, I knew they were after him too. He’s like me, Ash, he belongs to one of them. They don’t wrap sacrificial babies in gold leaf! It was an induction ceremony. We kidnapped one of their sons! The only way out of this is to expose them, and it’ll probably get us killed. You think I’ve lost my mind, don’t you? I recognize that look.”

It had been difficult to keep him on track. The information flooded his brain and stampeded out of his mouth. The look he’d read was one of careful concentration rather than disbelief, quite the contrary, for I believed every jumbled sentence that poured from his lips. The longer he spoke the more things made sense, but I reminded him about the recent party. He had yet to explain that one. The frightened child threatened to reappear, but Michael held it together and described the night that had sent me over the edge. He kept his head down and never once made eye contact while he fidgeted with his shirttail and rubbed his wrists. I prepared myself for the switch, but he made it through, his tone cautionary and his voice shy and insecure.

“I had to go with them, Ash. After what you told me about Gabe, I had to find out about that video. I’d seen your mask at the studio, you’re working for the devil, guess you know that, but there had to be a connection, a reason why he picked you to be the mask maker.”

Michael claimed that he went with them to the party to investigate. He said the man in the dark shiny suit showed up backstage at the Houston show and delivered the invitation. He hadn’t planned on going until I told him about Gabriel’s video tape a few days later. My client, the lawyer, hailed from New Orleans and represented members of Michael’s family, namely his brother, who was the new high priest for the cult. Everything was connected, and the longer I sat in that hospital chair listening to the buzzing and the beeping and the dripping of mysterious fluids, the more paranoid I became. In the fifteen years that I’d known him, Michael had never been wrong, but when he told me about seeing his dead father, I backslid. I refused to believe it.

“I’ve seen my father three times now, once at a show in Dallas, a few days ago on the street corner, and the other night at the party. I’m telling you, Ash, it’s him, like a ghost in the crowd, or somewhere alone among the shadows, I see him. My brother too, my older brother is sometimes with him, like at the party, they were both at the party. Didn’t talk to me, just watched. I didn’t know any of the other men there, nor did I blow anyone.”

I apologized again for my assumption. According to Michael, my pedophile client is not only a lawyer but also a drug dealer. Heroin in little red balloons, but how it got into Gabriel’s hands, neither of us knew. He explained the party as being a pre-celebration before the big one Halloween night for which he received two invitations. Bring your artist friend, one of the men had told him. Ashley is it? The one tapping on the window? He’s invited too. Michael then apologized for ignoring me that night.

“You looked pretty drunk though, and I didn’t think you could handle it. It was all a big misunderstanding, and that’s what I told Lisa.”

That’s when I asked about his wrists, but true to form, Michael looked away and refused to talk about it. I didn’t probe any deeper. I had what I needed for the time being and was anxious to return to Gabriel’s bedside. Five hours later, the conversation played on a maddening loop in my head while the machines continued their symphony. The night dragged on with no sign of life from my angel.

The stack of books that Billy brought from Gabriel’s shelf sat on a table against the wall, and as I thumbed through them, I found one tagged with page markers. The author was an ex-FBI agent and the book was titled, The Underground World of Satanic Cults in America. I brought it back to my chair and began reading aloud from the first marked page. The chapter dealt mainly with ritual killings and sacrifices, but the paragraphs that mentioned anything about infants and small children had been highlighted. I flipped over to the next marked page a few chapters later and found the subject matter had progressed into black mass ceremonies and celebrations. Again, I read through the highlighted paragraphs and found an excerpt that confirmed Michael’s claim. The author described the induction ritual of wrapping a child born into the cult in gold leaf, and a sacrificial offering is also given to confirm the child’s strength and loyalty within the group. Flipping over to the last marked page, I read through a long-highlighted section that discussed kidnappings and prostitution rings, and their connection to local government and federal institutions. The prominent boy’s home here in Houston where I grew up was mentioned in this section, and the accusations the author revealed rang true in my mind.

The author claimed that Houston was one of the worst cities for child prostitution, and in the last year alone, close to five hundred street boys were found dead, though none were called a homicide. Gabriel’s book alluded that a vast conspiracy existed to cover-up the deaths in order to protect certain high-ranking individuals. I agreed with the author. I had first-hand knowledge of the material, and as I continued reading, was pleased to find that he’d done his homework. The most damning piece of evidence was a case back in the mid-eighties where twenty-seven young boys were found dead in a house in The Heights. Police reports described the scene as horrific with some of the victims showing massive internal injury as the cause of death. All twenty-seven bodies had been ritualistically dismembered.

I set the book down and rubbed my forehead. Michael and I remembered hearing about the case, even knew three of the victims. They’d been on the main circuit, as opposed to the farm league which basically meant they hustled alone and made their own deals. Michael and I also worked the main circuit which is nothing more than organized prostitution. Back in the day, we’d hang out at a local arcade called, Funland, the official spot to auction ourselves off to the wealthy businessmen. The main circuit consisted of a select circle of boys who knew how to keep a secret. We were the ones who catered to politicians, judges and lawyers, the pillars of society who held powerful positions in financial, educational and industrial institutions, but it was all very discreet. Nice, wholesome families who took their kids to enjoy a day at the arcade had no idea about the activities playing out around them.

I met Michael on the main circuit, and the author was correct in stating that the boy’s home where I lived was a front group for the prostitution ring, but I doubted that most of the men involved worshipped Satan. They all wanted different things, and as I’ve said before, it wasn’t a gay thing. These men were attracted to young boys because they were defenseless and forbidden, not because of any kind of sexual preference, but as the book pointed out, only the ones at the very top saw the masks come off, and after they reached a certain age, say eighteen or so, they disappeared from the circuit completely.

Holding the book closed in my lap, I looked upon Gabriel’s sweet face and grew sick to my stomach. The things I did as a fourteen-year-old boy would forever leave their mark on my psyche. I’m damaged beyond repair. Plagued by wounds that will never heal and covered in scars that serve as constant reminders, I find myself considering suicide at least once a day, but Michael and Gabriel keep me going. I live for them. I would die for them, but this in between stage was too much to handle. Time to wake up now my angel.

I looked upon Gabriel’s face and tried to imagine him living the same childhood that I endured. I couldn’t fathom it. I couldn’t fathom seeing him tied up naked with perverted old men making passes and having their way with him. I would rather see him die than live through what Michael and I sustained. We saved him from that fate, but as my sleep-deprived mind examined the wealth of material presented over the course of the day, I grew sick to my stomach. If Michael was correct and the robed men really were coming for us, I didn’t have a clue as to how we would protect Gabriel. Listening to the sounds of the hospital, I figured I’d already failed.

Take a step back and I saw myself as mad as a hatter. Take a step forward and I saw myself plugged in and enlightened. I was either on the right track or losing it completely, and judging by Michael’s current state of affairs, I concluded it was a little of both. The two of us could be roommates in a loony bin together, but as we struggled to cope with the past in our own unique ways, Michael dumping his load on the child within, and me shutting out the world I hated, Gabriel suffered the consequences. Michael had been right yet again, we should have dropped him off somewhere. We should have left him on the steps of a church where Satanists wouldn’t find him and God himself could look after him.

I reached over to hold his hand and said a tearful prayer to the God he worshipped. I pleaded with his God to take mercy and release him from the coma. I begged for his protection against the evil that seemed to be closing in on Gabriel, and as a last-minute request, I asked for a sign of his existence. Opening my eyes, I held his hand and foolishly waited as if I expected him to rise up out of the bed fully recovered and ready to go home, as if my single prayer would be instantly granted. The machines buzzed, and the fluids dripped, but Gabriel continued to sleep. I leaned closer and kissed the palm of his hand, holding his fingers to my face as I relived that horrible moment. If only I’d unlocked the door one minute sooner, if I hadn’t paused and waited for him to come out I could have stopped him. Kurt Cobain’s sad eyes and downturned mouth haunted me.

I wanted to rip the poster to shreds. The heroin-addicted rock star who shot himself in the head proudly displayed on Gabriel’s closet door, and I was the one who bought it for him. Here kid, here’s another drug-addict to idolize. Have at it, yeah, suicide’s cool. I had no business raising a child, and as I relived that awful moment, I remembered something. The whites of his eyes, the vomit on his shirt, the needle sticking out of his arm, but I remembered seeing something else on his arm. I wasn’t sure. I hoped I was wrong, but as I pulled back the sleeve of his hospital gown and peeled away the small bandage, three puncture wounds surrounded the big one in the middle of his forearm. My throat constricted, and my stomach fell to the floor. Gabriel had injected heroin more than once, he had the markings to prove it. I looked at his face and admired the delicate features of such a beautiful adolescent boy. My little skater kid who never got into trouble, made good grades and helped kittens out of trees was also mainlining heroin. I started having doubts that the overdose was accidental.

The window offered an escape. I stood with crossed arms and looked out over the parking lot from my third-story view. I craved a glass of wine or a shot of bourbon. I needed my muscle relaxers. I wanted to jump but figured the third story wasn’t high enough. The steady cycle of hospital traffic held my gaze as one car left and another pulled in. The streetlights burned through the night. Suicide. Impossible to believe. Not my Gabriel. I stopped myself from drawing conclusions, but the same phrase scrolled through my mind like a blinking marquee – I don’t know him. He’s not who I think he is. With my back turned to his bed, I gazed out the window and voiced my concerns.

“Did you do it on purpose?” I asked. “Is this what you wanted? No warning, no explanation, no note, no nothing?” I rubbed my face and glared at the parking lot below. “What am I supposed to do?” I asked under my breath. “Give me a sign, one small sign that you’re up there.” Rubbing my face again, I wiped my eyes, tightened my arms across my chest and straightened up my posture. “You’re everything to me, Gabe, absolutely everything, but I honestly don’t know why. You’re not my son, not my blood, not my prodigy, just some baby I found, decided to keep,” I laughed. “You’re fourteen, you tell me, could you raise a kid?” I almost turned around out of pure habit, believing for a split second that I was engaged in a two-way conversation, but I would never speak to Gabriel that way. This was for me. My throat constricted, and my eyes burned with fatigue as I watched another car pull out and another pull in behind it. People come, people goes, where they stop, nobody knows. I could go. I could leave the hospital, go home, pack my bags, and then off to New York, Paris or Rome. My legal guardianship over Gabriel was bogus anyway, the paperwork fraudulent at best. I would be held accountable for nothing, legally bound to no one. I could walk away forever. People did it all the time, just up and disappeared, where they goes nobody knows.

The streetlights burned through the night as I peered down at a small group of people heading for the entrance. A dark-haired man with a cane followed behind but stopped on the curb just below my window. He stood with both hands on his walking cane and watched me, just as surely as I watched him, my nerves on edge and my body ready to collapse. I questioned whether he was there at all, or if delirium had finally taken over. My forehead brushed against the window as I leaned in closer and cupped my hands against the glass. Short dark hair, expensive suit, about mid to late forties, but facial features were difficult to make out. He stood like a statue with his head tilted upward and his cane centered at his feet. He watched. People walked past, cars drove by, an ambulance pulled in, but he stood unaffected, watching. The minutes passed, and my discomfort grew, held prisoner at the window and pushing Michael’s voice out of my head, pushing everything out of my head, my nerves on the verge of exploding. I threw up my hands and waved. I call, lay em down! Lowering his chin, the man turned on his heels and strolled toward the entrance.