Entering Lowe's mind had been like that, like shoving your hand into a dead man's rotting face.
All the more reason, Peter thought in the dull light of Lowe's office. All the more reason to fix him.
He reached for Lowe's shiny pate before he could change his mind again.
Lowe's eyes snapped open. Colors bloomed in the darkness, blending, then resolving into the ill-lit contours of his office.
Why did I come up here?
He noticed his fix on the desk.
Oh, yeah. Time to do up.
He chuckled. What a numbnuts. Took the shit out and forgot to use it. He found the open swab—dry?—and a faint alarm sounded in his mind.
Dud swab, that's all it is. Dry run. Should send it back for a refund.
He chuckled again. Picked up the syringe. Cranked ten ccs of air into the ampoule and withdrew an equal measure of liquid. He reached for the tourniquet. . . but it seemed a long way off, coiled beneath the lamp like a snake cribbing in the sun, and he said to hell with it.
He flicked a vein in the crook of his elbow—
(wrong)
—and another alarm sounded, this one more insistent. (Not in the arm!) Nice vein. Do it.
The needle slipped in, and the gold ran home. The rush was instantaneous, astounding, and a dimming part of Harrison Lowe wondered why he'd bothered with all those pissant little doses in the first place. This was the only way to fly!
Fly. . .
He crossed unsteadily to his sixth-floor window. It was an incredible night out there, gentle flakes sifting down, the sky a downy, glowing white. Watching it, he felt himself lightening, losing mass, until soon it seemed he possessed no more substance than a snowflake.
He climbed onto the foot-wide windowsill.
Fly.
Lowe pressed his forehead to the glass, then the palms of his hands, letting the thermal panes take some of his weight. Senses heightened, he peered down the flank of the building, then up, intrigued by the eddying patterns of the snowflakes, the way the updrafts caught them and twirled them about like eager little dancers. Letting the glass take his full weight, he imagined himself aloft out there, floating gently on the updrafts. . .
There was a muted creak of strain followed by a gritty splintering sound as a crack etched its way up from the lower left corner of the inner pane.
The night air would support him, he knew it would, because he was light, barely there, a dream with wings—
Crraaaack!!
No!
Lowe shoved back and away from the window. In response to the sudden force, the glass blew out with a savage barking sound.
Winter air found him where he lay dazed between his desk and the windowsill, and it cuffed him harshly in the face.
Overdose! a panicked voice cried. . . but to Lowe it was merely a whisper. Got to get up! Got to get moving!
Neglecting to conceal his stash, Lowe climbed to his feet and stumbled to his office door. Behind him, glittering snowflakes swept in through the shattered window, forming tiny white drifts on his desk. He twisted the latch, pulled the door open, and stepped out into the hallway.
A service elevator stood directly across from him. He punched the button and the doors slid open. He stepped aboard, thumbed the button marked B, and leaned against the paneled side wall. When the doors rattled open again, he stepped into a narrow basement corridor lined with pipes and ducts and floored with raw cement.
Aimless, he tried the first door he encountered.
The morgue was unlocked. It reeked of formalin. A few lights were on, picking up gleaming highlights, and in an unseen drain liquid chuckled obscenely, a sinister sound, low and somehow canny. Lowe locked the door behind him and scanned the big room.
There was a tarp-draped corpse on the nearest autopsy table. The slab beside it was vacant. Beyond the tables, stacked like oversize filing cabinets, a wall of refrigerated stainless-steel drawers mirrored his image in elongated funhouse reflections.
Lowe approached the corpse. Its covering drape was of a thick smoky plastic, and it made a sound like kicked autumn leaves when he drew it back. The woman lying stock-still beneath it was young. A teenager. Beautiful Her naked body was perfect, full breasts sitting high, tummy flat, pubic mound bristling with flaxen hair. Her complexion was pale, perhaps a little dusky, but she might only have been sleeping, cold in this harsh, refrigerated air. There was no sign of injury at all.
Lowe began to weep.
And to remove his clothes.
When he was naked, he stroked the girl's waxen face. "I'm sorry," he said, tears beading on the rim of his jaw. "So sorry."
He turned to an instrument tray and selected a scalpel. In the artificial light the blade seemed an object of gleaming perfection.
Clasping the scalpel in one hand, Lowe dragged the blade across the extended surface of his opposite wrist. Blood spurted up in fine twin jets, spattering the undraped corpse.
After a moment, he opened his other wrist, too.
He climbed onto the vacant autopsy slab and lay on his back, still weeping, the backs of his hands resting in the table-side gutters. He turned his head and looked at the gift, her lifeless face staring blankly at the ceiling.
Then, slowly, he closed his eyes, wanting only to sleep. . .
But now there was a sharp, tearing pain in his forehead, a sense of something being forcibly extruded—and he realized with blunted shock that he was naked, that he was lying on a smooth metallic surface, cold as the grave, and that he could hardly breathe! It was as if something enormous had settled on his chest—Too much I injected too much!—and his eyes were burning with light.
"Jesus. . .” It was a breathless whisper.
His gaze drifted to one side, away from the light, and now he saw the gift's cadaver, its torso drizzled with blood, his blood, dripping off its sides into shiny, candy-apple puddles. Jesus!
He tried to sit up and couldn't. Too weak. He raised his hands a few inches, but they splatted back into the gutters.
"Help me," Lowe cried in a breathless wheeze. "Oh, God, won't somebody help me?"
The light. . .
The light was so bright, blue light, oozing down from the ceiling and coalescing above him, taking shape. . .
Awed and terribly afraid, Lowe closed his eyes for the last time. He experienced a curious tugging sensation over the length of his body, not at all unpleasant.
And his last conscious thought before he died was that he was floating.
THIRTY-ONE
Kelly sat alone at her desk in the cluttered gym office and twisted Will's ring on her finger. When he'd given it to her three weeks ago, Kelly had slipped it onto the ring finger of her right hand. . . but sometimes, when she was alone, she shifted it to the corresponding finger on her left, as Will had intended. She did this now, thinking what a sweetheart he had been since Christmas, not pushing, not coaxing, patiently allowing her the time to think things through.
She raised her hand to the light and admired the diamond. She had finished off her day with a group of grade niners, tutoring them in the fine art of cross-country skiing. Many of them were already quite proficient—in these parts, cross-country skiing was a community pastime, right up there with snowmobiling, curling, and ice fishing. But a few of them were nigh on hopeless. . . and Kelly enjoyed these students most. For her, the small triumphs were the most gratifying. . .
Kelly shuddered a little, recalling the interview she'd had with the principal at the beginning of the winter term and how easily she might have lost the job she cherished so much. When she'd returned after the holidays, there had been a single manila envelope in her gym office mailbox. On it had been her name, in Ms. Cole's neat back-slanting script, and an embossed heading: from the office of the principal. Kelly had slit the envelope open with real trepidation, afraid the verdict had already been entered.
But it had been only a request for a chat, as soon as Kelly could arrange it. She'd gone to the main office that very minute.
"There's been some talk," Nickie Cole had said frankly, after inviting Kelly to sit. "And I'd like to clear it up right away." She stood at the window as she spoke, misting a series of spidery plants with a stylish brass spray can. Barely thirty, Nickie Cole looked more like a corporate executive than a high school principal—short hair, trim figure, snappy gray outfit—but Kelly didn't doubt for an instant that her own future as an educator depended on what was said in the next few minutes. "I assume you know what I'm talking about?"
"Yes," Kelly said. "I do."
The principal turned to face her. "Can you shed any light on it?"
"I believe I can," Kelly said.
And then she had told the truth, or as much of it as needed telling. She explained to Nickie about Peter, about the tragedy that had befallen them, and about the unexpected resurgence of her feelings for the man. Then she talked about Will. About the future she hoped they would share, and the sense of inner vitality his affection had restored in her. Later, when it was over, she supposed that something in her forthrightness had convinced the principal of her renewed stability. It had been a tense half hour, but it had been good to get things squared away.
It occurred to Kelly then that her ruinous obsession with Peter had all but vanished. She'd scarcely thought of him in weeks. For some obscure reason, it had all just. . . dropped away, like a reptile's restricting outer skin. And as destructive as the process had been, Kelly thought now that perhaps it had been necessary. A cleansing that should have come years ago, before she'd had a chance to wall it up. And that was exactly how she felt. Cleansed, and. . . happy. Yes, she was happy.
And like the last time this simple truth had made itself known to her, Kelly realized that Will was at the center of it.
Solid, loving Will.
Kelly stood, her complexion still rosy from the January air, and pulled on her coat. She'd intended to mark some papers, but suddenly she was too excited to concentrate. She was going to go home—Will had more or less moved in—and see how long it took him to notice where his ring had taken up residence.
No question about it now. I can kill. The proof is in a long cool drawer downstairs. Jesus, I wish I'd stuck around until they found him. What a trip that must have been!
And you know what, world? It felt Good!
Yeah, it did.
But there were problems, and I'll have to keep them in mind when it comes time to deal with the others. Control is not absolute, nor is it without restriction. Harry resisted me at first. He might've been a prick, but he was also very sharp. And tough. It was like trying to tackle a man in thick mud, until he injected his shit. Then it was easier. And hey, kids, that dope of his is pretty good stuff, even when it's only dirty seconds! Can't say I blame the bald fuck for getting himself hooked.
But even then he fought me.
It hinges on rage, of course. Pure, unadulterated rage.
No problem there. I'm sittin' on a shitload—
"Hey, bro. Whatcha typin'?"
Peter jabbed the keyboard with his mouth-held striker and scrolled the screen blank. Scowling at his brother, he dropped the striker and said, "Don't sneak up on me like that, man!"
Recoiling a little, Sam blushed and apologized. "Sorry, Pete. I knocked, but I guess—"
"Yeah, you're right," Peter said, his complexion draining back to its usual waxiness. "Scared me, is all. I guess I was pretty wrapped up."
"I'll say," Sam said, relaxing a little. "What're you up to? Plotting a spy novel?"
"Nah. It's nothing. Just practicing. It's embarrassing. I'm so fucking slow!" The anger, always so close to the surface now. "One key at a time—plink, plink—like a frigging grade-schooler."
"Patience, my man," Sam said, trying to sound light. Moving stiffly, he pulled up a chair and sat, keeping his left leg splinted in front of him. In the hallway outside, a porter rattled by with an empty dinner cart. It was seven o'clock. "Have you tried any of the games?"
"A few," Peter lied, his scowl falling away as he focused on Sam's face. Some of the swelling had gone down overnight, and his right eye had slitted open, but he still looked pretty rough. "Holy fuck," he said, appalled. "Your face. I'd forgotten how bad—"
Peter closed his mouth with a snap.
"How bad what?" Sam said. This was the first time he'd been in since the beating. "Were you. . . ?"
Then a memory came to Sam, of a dream within a dream—or a dream superimposed on a dream—nightmare and reverie thrown together in an uneasy mix. He remembered awakening on the couch the previous evening and thinking that Peter had been right there with him—the feeling had been that immediate. Peter had been right there with him and had been about to save Sam from. . . but that, too, had been a dream, a restless replay of the trouncing he'd taken from Kiley and his drunken crew.
A chill eat-pawed its way up Sam's spine. He looked at his brother and felt naked. Worse than naked. He felt violated.
"Did you. . . ?" Sam began.
But no, of course not. He'd learned to accept Peter's ability to leave his body, uncanny as it was, but surely that was the extent of it? Peter had come to the apartment while Sam slept; that much Sam had already surmised. . .
But had he seen? Seen into Sam's fitful dreams?
Sam dismissed the notion for the absurdity it was. Perhaps, in the receptive state of sleep, Sam had sensed his brother's presence. In their more recent discussions of Peter's ability, Peter had reported that he felt himself growing steadily stronger, more able to impinge on the tangible environment. Yeah. That was all it had been, just a feeling that Peter was there, close by.
(inside)
"Was I, did I, what?" Peter said, amused at what he perceived as his brother's leap of insight. "We're going to have to start speaking in complete sentences here, Sammy."
"You. . . saw me?" Sam said, indicating the swollen ruin of his face. "Before now?"
"Yep."
"Last night?"
"Yep."
"Jesus," Sam breathed. "That's weird. That's really weird." A cleft divided his brow. "Christ, man, what if I'd been. . . I don't know, boffing a babe or something?"
Peter whooped. "What, a virgin like thou?"
"Who says I'm a virgin?" Sam shot back, his face the color of a beet.
"You just did," Peter said, laughing again. "'Boffing a babe. . . '"
"Well, it's not impossible, you know."
Recognizing his brother's bruised ego, Peter backed off. "What about it, bro? Any prospects in your life?"
Unbidden, Kelly's face flashed in Sam's mind, as unexpected as his earlier thoughts of his brother invading his dreams, and he blushed again. He glanced at Peter and thought he saw something flicker across his face like the shadow of a predatory bird. Then Peter was smiling again, patiently awaiting a response.
"No," Sam said. "Nothing serious. Looks like it's going to be liver in a jam jar for a while yet."
"Liver in a jam jar," Peter repeated, incredulous. "Where did you hear about that?"
"Psychopathia Sexualis," Sam said, getting into the rap. "Required reading for the Human Growth and Development course, Biology Two. Cram in the liver, stuff in your dick. Great for no-stick frying afterward."
"You are one sick puppy!" Peter howled.
And for a while they were just brothers again.
Later, on his way down in the elevator, it occurred to Sam that he was hungry. He'd had nothing to eat since breakfast, and now he craved something sweet. After exiting at the main floor, he crossed the lobby to the gift shop, where he grabbed a Mr. Big from the candy rack. As he dug in his pocket for some change, he noticed Shawna Blane and another nurse from Peter's floor buzzing over the daily newspaper. Shawna held it up for her companion's inspection, and Sam caught a glimpse of the headline: physician dies in bizarre in-hospital suicide. Curious, he paid for his chocolate bar, then browsed through the curios and gifts. When the nurses left, he strode immediately to the newsstand.
Attired in suit coat and smock, looki
ng officious and smug, Dr. Lowe stared out at him from the front page of the Sudbury Star. The headline, as lurid as they got in this peaceful municipality, screamed out at him in bold black caps.
"Jesus," Sam said, trying to ignore the jab of dread in his gut. "Oh, Jesus. . .”
He picked up a copy and scanned the article. Then he paid for the paper, rolled it into a tube, and limped back out to the elevators. He could feel his heart drumming out quick, nervous rhythms in his chest.
He was breathless when he reached his brother's room—but some instinct made him pause just short of the open door. Dinner was over, the evening rounds completed, and the ward was winding down for the night. At the moment the hallway was deserted.
Moving silently—and feeling a bit ridiculous—Sam crept to the edge of the doorjamb and peeked inside.
There on the bed in the dimming twilight lay his brother. The computer was on, and in its dull green shine Peter looked chillingly like Rhett Kiley had looked in the swampy green glow of the Caddy's dash lights. The key striker was plugged into his mouth like some weird wand, and his face was pinched with concentration. . . and something else, Sam thought. There was an open delight in Peter's face, and it brought a memory to Sam the way a throttle brought juice to an engine.
One afternoon in grade school Sam had left his homework assignment on his desk and had been halfway home before he realized it. He'd made his way back at a run, and had been grateful to find his classroom unlocked. He went to his desk, grabbed his books, and turned to leave. It was then that he heard the faint, strangled squeals coming from the science room across the hall. The door to the science room was ajar, and although the lights were off Sam noticed a shadow against one wall, rocking rhythmically to and fro. He'd crept to that door the way he was creeping now. . . and on the other side he'd found Ben Parrillo, a fat, dumpling-faced kid, hunched over an unlit workbench. Ben was hacking the head off a white mouse with a pair of scissors. Rodent blood had sprayed up his arm and speckled his double chin—and the look on Ben's face had been exactly like the one on Peter's face now: fixed, furious, transported, delighted. Eight years later, at the age of sixteen, Ben had stabbed his mother to death, then hanged himself from an attic crossbeam. He'd stabbed her sixty-eight times.
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