He shook his head, searching for an answer, finding it by remembering that it was not his choice, that he could only play out the remainder of the act, not write it.
So the options were closed. He could only toss the dice, spin the wheel, see what had been decided. The only thing he could not bear to do was wait. The most he could hope to do was to force fate’s hand.
Then he thought of the car outside, the car sitting and purring and waiting in the cold, wet March darkness, waiting for him. The people inside were waiting for him too. All their lives they had been focused to this point, this spot, this hour. Their world was a giant funnel in which, no matter where they crawled on its surface, time pulled them inexorably down until they arrived here, on Sundale Road at 12:45 A.M. the precise moment at which Brad Meyers also reached the funnel’s mouth.
He went upstairs to get his pistol and do what he would do.
The rain had stopped.
The boy and girl had moved once more to the front seat, tired and satisfied, so that their defenses were down when the man with the gun yanked open the door. Dave Boyer would have tumbled out had the man not caught him by the shoulder. “Just hold it steady,” the man said, brandishing the pistol so they both could see it, “and don’t be heroes.”
Dave’s breath caught in his throat, and his stomach twisted. The barrel of the gun was a black eye staring out of blackness, blackness that could suddenly explode into light and end light forever.
“I don’t want to hurt either of you.”
“What do you want?” asked Kim, her words bolder than she felt.
“Some help. You”—he pointed at Kim—”get out of the car and come inside with me.” The girl hesitated. “I’m not going to hurt you. And I’m not going to rape you either. But I need”—the man paused, then grinned as though what he said was absurd—”a hostage.”
“Okay, look,” Dave said, unable to stop his voice from shaking, “what you need is help, okay? Now, why don’t you put the gun down and—”
“Kid, don’t be an asshole. You have no idea what you’re doing. Now you just get your car in gear and drive down to the police station and tell them to hurry over. Think you can handle that? It’s that house right there, and my name is Brad Meyers.”
Dave shook his head. “Why? What’s all this about?”
“It’s about endings. Confrontations. Peace and freedom. Life and death.”
The boy turned to Kim and whispered, “He’s crazy … I can’t leave you here.”
“You’ve got to.”
“Enough!” Brad said, rapping the barrel of the pistol against Dave’s ann. “No discussions. Now move!”
“I’ll be all right,” whispered Kim.
She opened the door and got out slowly. Brad came around the car and took her by the arm. He spoke to Dave through the open door. “You can tell them that I killed the woman I’m living with … and her son. They’ll like to hear that.”
Both Kim and Dave turned pale, and the girl stumbled, her legs suddenly weak. “I’m not going to kill you,” said Brad.
“What do you want?” Brad looked quizzically at the boy. “Demands?”
“Demands?” asked Brad.
“You said ‘hostage.’ What’ll I tell them? What are your demands?”
Brad licked his lips. “I told you. Peace and freedom. Life and death. Confrontation. Ending.”
“But—”
“I know what I want. You bring them. I’ll get it. Now go.” Brad slammed the car door and gave the side a sharp kick. With a harsh, urgent grinding, the boy engaged the gears and drove off. Brad watched the taillights until they disappeared around a bend, and started to lead the girl back into the house. “What’s your name?”
“Kim. Kim Bailey.” Alone with the man, Kim felt helpless, insignificant. “Why are you doing this?” she cried in pinched tones.
Brad heard the fear and hated it. He didn’t want her to be scared, only to obey. “I’m doing it because I have to. Now don’t be frightened. I told you you wouldn’t be hurt. I’m not after your death, don’t you see that? Just do what I tell you and you’ll be all right.”
They entered the house, and Brad told the girl to follow him while he locked all the doors and windows and drew the curtains. Over the large living room window that fronted Sundale Road, be drew only the sheers, then turned on the outside lights. “Help me,” he said, grabbing an arm of the sofa. Together, he and Kim swiveled it so that it faced the window. Then he turned off the living room lights.
The room was dimly lit from the outer radiance spilling in through the sheers, but to observers on the lawn outside, the contents of the room would be in darkness. The lawn was well illuminated, and anyone approaching the house from the front would be hazily visible to Brad and Kim. They sat in silence, Brad watching the window casually, the gun held loosely in his lap. Kim was far more nervous, glancing into the many shadows the half-darkened room held.
Finally she had to ask. “Where … are they?”
He turned toward her. “Not here. The boy is in his room; my … the woman’s downstairs in the basement.”
“Is that where—”
“They both died downstairs. Those are downstairs.” He sighed. “I guess I should be down there too. Finish it down there with them. One big happy family.” His voice broke, and he cleared his throat angrily. “No more questions, all right? I’ve got a few things to think about right now.”
He had nothing to think about. He was beyond thinking.
CHAPTER 27
The morning was going well for Clyde Thornton. He had left the Lansford Holiday Inn East bar with June Sibley, an out-of-town vocalist who had recognized him and accepted his offer of a drink. When he invited her on a tour of Merridale, she agreed with a mixture of excitement and fear he had seen before in a dozen other bars, on a dozen other pretty faces. I want to see, it said. Show me. Take me to the funhouse, into the dark where the boogeymen jump out and go boo and scare me. And then you can hold me tight. Hold me very tight.
Show me the dead men so I can feel alive.
The drive through Merridale worked as Thornton had wished, a classic aphrodisiac, and it was not long before he was licking drops of Drambuie off her pale nipples as she giggled and moaned on the floor of Ted Bashore’s den. They moved their activities to the king-sized Beautyrest in Thornton’s bedroom, and afterward he lay exhausted, his head on the smooth flatness of her stomach. A short time later he was demonstrating Ted Bashore’s in-bed sound system to the girl, turning on, among other things, the Bearcat Scanner. Then, at 1:05 in the morning, Clyde Thornton heard the bulletin on the police band.
“What’s all that mean?” June Sibley asked, letting her hand trail down over Clyde Thornton’s bare back.
“Shh. Wait a minute.”
She gave a small, pouting frown at the rebuff, then lay back listening to the static-filled voice that she did not understand.
Thornton’s face brightened as she watched. “Holy shit,” he whispered.
“What?”
“Seems one of our townsfolk just kidnapped a girl and maybe killed his family to boot.”
“You’re joking.”
“Nope. Feel like a little excitement? A little more excitement, that is?”
“Like what?”
“You’ll see.” He leaned over and kissed her right nipple. “Get dressed.”
June and Thornton arrived at Sundale Road twenty minutes after they got out of bed. The girl had protested on the way. “I don’t think I want to do this. I mean, what’s the point?”
“Maybe I can help. Hell, everybody knows me. And everybody trusts me too.” Thornton smiled smugly. It was silly, he knew. He couldn’t hope to impress her any more than he already had. But what the hell, it would be something different, something on which to try out his newfound powers. He’d felt so damn confident lately, so sure of himself and his fate. If he couldn’t talk this screwball into giving himself up, at least he could put on a helluva show.
Kaylor glowered at the words. “What are you doing here, Dr. Thornton?”
“Heard the bulletin on my scanner. Thought I’d come see if I could help.”
“Thanks, but I think not. State Police are on their way.”
“Well, we’ll see.” Thornton gestured toward the house. “Who is it?”
“Guy named Brad Meyers.”
“And?” There was no answer. “Don’t tell me I’m going to have to read about this in the papers, Frank.”
“Look, Thornton, we’ve got a real problem here, okay?”
“And that’s why I’m here,” he said firmly. “Now, what the hell’s happened?” Kaylor looked away. “Don’t make me remind you, Frank, that I’ve got jurisdiction from the government, state and federal. In other words, I outrank you.”
“Not in criminal matters.”
“Let’s not fuck around with details, huh? Merridale is still an official disaster area, and I’m in charge. Now, what happened?”
Kaylor’s shoulders slumped, and he told Thornton, not because he outranked him, but because it was easier than arguing further. “Meyers grabbed a girl. He’s got her in there with a gun. Told the kid the girl was with that he killed the woman he’s living with and her son, but we don’t know if that’s true.”
“Talk to him at all?”
“Yeah.”
“And?”
“And nothing. He doesn’t talk back.”
“Are you sure he’s in there?”
“Would you like to go in and check?”
“Funny.” Thornton smirked. “Where’s your bullhorn?”
“Uh-unh.”
“Let me have the bullhorn, Frank. You’re voted into office, you know.”
Kaylor shook his head, then reached in through his car window. “Here,” he said, handing the bullhorn to Thornton. “Maybe Meyers can aim at the sound. One thing understood, though”—and he glanced around to take in his officers and June Sibley—”you’re not my responsibility. You want to play, play at your own risk.”
“If I play, I’ll win. Don’t worry about me, son.” Thornton put an arm around June’s shoulders. “Maybe you’d better get behind a car in case this clown starts shooting.”
“Jesus,” Kaylor muttered.
“What the fuck is this guy doing, Chief?” Del Franklin whispered.
“Playing cops and robbers,” answered Kaylor, loud enough for Thornton to hear.
Thornton flared. “Goddammit! Don’t you forget who I am!”
“Who?”
“I’m a social fucking psychologist, pal! I know about stresses, I know what drives people to things like this! Who the hell were you gonna let use this bullhorn, some state cop with a B.S. in fingerprinting? Or were you gonna try it again? Christ, you can’t even find guys who kill old ladies! Now just shut up and let me work!”
Kaylor turned away fiercely, stepping behind the police car with his men. In a moment the girl joined them, her face white. Kaylor smiled a cold smile. “Old friend of yours?”
She shook her head quickly, nervously. “We just met tonight.”
“Hell of a first date,” said Kaylor, and his men nodded. “Knows how to show a girl a real good time.”
“Yeah, a real lady-killer.”
Clyde Thornton heard, and laughed inside. Then he walked away from the shelter of the cars, into the swath of light that swept the wet front lawn, and raised the bullhorn to his mouth. “Hello, Brad,” he called. “This is Clyde Thornton speaking. You may know me. I’m the fella the government sent here [make it folksy, relaxed] to try to help you folks out. You know, what’s been happening here has put all of us under a real strain. It’s been rough for everybody. Now, some people react in different ways, and what you’ve done, and we’re not really sure what you’ve done, is just one of those ways. Now, I am a trained psychologist …”
“He may be a psychologist,” whispered Mike Gifford, “but he sure as shit don’t know Brad Meyers.”
“… and I’m used to working with people and talking with people who are under the same kind of stress you’re under. I’d like to talk to you, Brad. I hope you’d like to talk to me.” He let five seconds pass. “Would you?”
There was no sound from the house, no movement.
“All right, Brad. I understand. Maybe you don’t want to talk in front of the other people here. I can understand that. What if it was just you and me? What if I came in?”
“Aw, shit,” growled Kaylor. “Thornton!”
Clyde Thornton turned, his face red. “Shut up! I know what I’m doing. I taught a seminar in this.”
“A seminar. Sweet jumpin’ Jesus.”
“I saw this on TV,” June Sibley said. “He’ll go in there and get the guy to let the girl go and stay in himself. Oh, my God, he’s so brave.”
“Oh, my ass. He’s so stupid,” Del Franklin said.
They watched as Thornton moved closer to the house. “Chief, the asshole is really gonna do it.”
“No he’s not.” Kaylor came out of his crouch and started walking into the light, toward Thornton, who heard the footsteps and turned.
“What are you doing?”
“You’re not going in there,” said Kaylor, advancing.
Thornton hesitated for only a moment, then turned back toward the house and ran. “Open the door!” he cried. “I’m coming in!”
Kaylor stopped, shocked into immobility, expecting any second to hear a burst of gunfire and see Thornton fall back stiffly. But instead he heard only Thornton’s feet slapping toward the front door, the click as an unseen hand turned the knob, a hollow scraping as the door left its frame, and its final slam as it closed behind the man. As if in a dream, Kaylor’s legs moved once more, taking him slowly toward that door.
“Far enough.” The house amplified the voice. It was a new voice, cold, stern, Brad Meyers’s voice, and hearing it made Kaylor realize how vulnerable he was. He brought his arms slowly out from his body, turned around, and walked, neither slow nor fast, back to the knot of people crouching dry-mouthed behind the cars.
“He’s crazy,” he said vacantly when he joined them. “They’re both crazy.”
Inside the house, Clyde Thornton stood, his back to the door, wishing he could stop shaking, thinking, I showed him, I showed him, he couldn’t stop me. I showed him.
Then he saw the gun that Brad Meyers, who had moved immediately to the window after opening and closing the door for Thornton, now held on him. “Take off your jacket. Slowly,” Meyers said, and Thornton obeyed. “Throw it on the floor. Now lean against the wall. Put your feet apart. Okay.” Brad patted him down clumsily, then turned his back on him and went back to the couch. “Sit down,” he said, pointing to a chair a few feet from the couch. Thornton sat. “Why did you do that? Run in here like that?”
Thornton shrugged. “I don’t know. I just did it.”
“Weren’t you afraid I’d shoot you?”
“No. Not then.”
“Now?”
“No. Should I be?”
“Only if you try to take the gun away.”
“Why don’t you let the girl go?”
Thornton turned to the girl. “Are you all right?”
“Yes.”
“I’m not going to hurt her.”
“What’s this all about, Brad?”
Brad didn’t answer.
“Why did you do this?”
“Why did you run in here?”
“Did you really kill two people in here?”
Brad nodded.
“Why?” asked Thornton. “Why did you run in here?”
“That how it’s going to work? Every time I ask you a question you ask me one?”
“Is it?”
“Why did you let me in?”
Brad ignored the question.
> “Let the girl go. You want a hostage, I’ll stay with you.”
“She stays.”
“Why?”
“She’s supposed to. That’s the way it is. That’s the scenario. I’m not going to hurt her.”
“Will you show me the people you killed?”
“You can’t help them.”
“Can I help you?”
“You can’t help me.”
“You must want something.”
“This. This is what I want.”
“Will you let me go if I want to leave?”
“Yes.”
“I’d rather stay here and talk to you.”
“Then stay.”
“This can’t last forever, you know.”
“I know.” Brad turned his gaze from the window, looked at Thornton for a long time. “You want to see them? Chris and Wally?”
“If you want to show me.”
“Sure.” He nodded wearily. “We’ll all go.” He stood up and led the way out of the living room, looking over his shoulder to make certain they were following. He stopped at the door of Wally’s room. “In there.”
“I don’t want to look,” Kim said.
“You don’t have to,” Brad assured her. He gestured with his head, and Thornton entered the bedroom. In the glow of the night light he saw the mound under the covers, the bloodstained head and face. He pulled the blankets back and felt for a pulse, but the skin was nearly cold, the joints already starting to stiffen, so he drew the sheet up over the head. “No,” Brad said from the doorway. “Leave it like it was. He gets too sweaty that way.”
Thornton shivered and tugged the sheet back. “What about the woman?”
“Downstairs.” The three of them made their way back through the house to the kitchen, where Brad paused at the basement door and turned to Kim. “You’ll have to come down with us. I can’t leave you up here alone.” He turned his face toward the front of the house. “They won’t come in. They won’t know we’re down there. They don’t know where we are.” They started down the steps, Brad bringing up the rear.
Thornton, leading, was the first to see, lying in a puddle of its own urine, the dog mingled with the ghost of the little boy, like a ghoul’s parody of a church calendar scene. The physical body of the woman was next. Its back was to Thornton, its face to the bottom of the couch against which it lay. And then he saw its shade still sprawled on the couch where it had come into being. First were the naked blue legs, splayed to reveal the dark pubis. As he descended farther, the flat, emaciated stomach came into view, then the large breasts, ungainly on the cadaverous frame (those breasts, where …), the neck a darker blue than the blue of the spirit-light, and the face, tongue puffy, eyes larger than life, the face that seemed so familiar that he gasped, seeing Marie Snyder’s strangled countenance blending with the pouting, childlike face of the Merridale girl he had spent a night with long months ago.
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