Child’s Play 3

by Matthew J. Costello

  “We were playing hide-and-seek.” Tyler looked at the doll. Like it’s a friend, thought De Silva. Pretty pathetic when a kid has to pretend that a doll is his friend.

  “I was hiding and he found me.”

  Ivers rolled her eyes at De Silva.

  “What were you guys doing?” Tyler asked.

  Ivers looked at the file in De Silva’s hand. “Er, we couldn’t sleep. I was just taking a little walk.”

  Tyler nodded, and then Ivers walked up to him and took the doll.

  “Oh, he’s soooo cute. I’ve seen these guys on TV.”

  De Silva held the file lightly. There was more in there she wanted to see, more secrets about Andy Barclay. But now she looked at Tyler. He should get back to his room. They could all be in big trouble if they got caught out here.

  She patted Tyler’s head. It felt smooth, reminding her of a bowling ball. “What’s his name,” De Silva said.

  Tyler grinned. “Ask him yourself.”

  “Oh, yeah,” De Silva said. She put the file down and went right up to the doll. “What’s your name, doll?”

  For a second, nothing happened. Then the doll’s eyes blinked—and Ivers squealed. It was eerie in this dark office. The head moved, turning left and right, as if searching for someone to talk to.

  “Hi! I’m Chucky, and I’m your friend to the end! Hidey-ho, ha-ha-ha!”

  The voice, thought De Silva, is absolutely bizarre.

  “Too weird,” Ivers said.

  “I love it!” De Silva said, taking the doll from Ivers.

  Tyler came close, pulling on the doll’s leg. But De Silva held on, fascinated by the way the doll could just come to life like that. Must have a pretty amazing computer chip inside it.

  “His real name is Charles Lee Ray,” Tyler said.

  De Silva nodded, and took the doll over to a desk chair. “He’s cute—but I think I can do a nice make-over for him.”

  “What? What are you going to do?” Tyler said.

  “Give me your lipstick,” De Silva asked Ivers.

  “What are you? . . .”

  De Silva didn’t know why she wanted to do this. Maybe the doll is too weird; maybe it’s too clever. She felt Tyler watching her, concerned. A thought crossed her mind. I’m scaring the kid.

  But right then it didn’t matter.

  Ivers handed her the lipstick.

  She took the doll’s face in her hand. She screwed out the point of the lipstick. “This is going to look great,” she said.

  De Silva started outlining the doll’s lips in red, and then she made a perfect bow shape with the red lipstick. Until the doll looked as if it was ready to be kissed.

  “There,” De Silva said handing the lipstick back to Ivers.

  “He looks stupid,” Tyler said. “You’ve made him look stupid. I thought you were nice.”

  De Silva stood up and gave Tyler a hug. She was laughing. For some reason, she liked seeing the doll like this, with his beet red lips.

  “No, he doesn’t, Ty. Your doll looks sweet.” But she laughed even as she said the words to Tyler.

  De Silva stood back, and Ivers collapsed into her laughing. “Makes me want to give him a big kiss,” Ivers said. “He’s . . .”

  She stopped and spun around, looking to the outer office.

  “Uh-oh! Someone’s coming. I’m splitting!”

  De Silva grabbed the Andy Barclay file and then grabbed Tyler’s hand, hurrying him out of the office.

  “Wait, you forgot . . .”

  “We’re dead meat if we’re caught in here, Tyler. Come on!” She pushed him out into the hall and shut the door. She heard someone coming up the steps, down the hall, whistling.

  “Quickly, this way,” she said, pulling Tyler along.

  “But Chucky!” he said. “We left . . .”

  But De Silva just dragged him along.

  Chucky looked around the office. I can’t believe it. I. Can’t. Believe. It.

  I had the kid. He was right here. I had the knife. It was nice and private and we were all set. Then those two fascist bimbos from hell open the door and I have to go back to being a goddamn toy. There’s no justice!

  But then to put lipstick on me. Just who do they think they’re messing with? Do they know what Charles Lee Ray is capable of? Are they familiar with my repertoire?

  Come to think of it, they probably aren’t. My glamour days were over eight years ago. Charles Lee Ray is just another dead serial killer.

  I’ve got no reputation.

  Yet.

  He stood up in the chair. He rubbed at his lips, grinding the sleeve of his Good Guy T-shirt on his lips, wiping away the red goo.

  And when he was done, he opened his mouth.

  And said:

  “This means war!”

  De Silva looked over her shoulder, hearing someone whistling a goofy tune that seemed to come from another world.

  She saw Cochrane, dressed in sweats.

  She looked forward, just as she reached the corner leading to the dorm wing. Tyler still tugged against her.

  “Come on,” De Silva hissed.

  “But . . .”

  And De Silva yanked him around the corner, toward the dorm.

  Cochrane was whistling “Colonel Bogey March” from the movie The Bridge on the River Kwai.

  Hell of a film, a real military film. No pussyfooting there. It was all about honor and duty and the responsibility of command.

  The hot shower washed off the smell of rain and mud from outside. But still Cochrane couldn’t sleep. It’s been a crazy day, he thought.

  Crazy. That poor, stupid garbage man. Imagine falling into your own truck. It was so horrible. A shame the cadets had to see it. Supposedly they heard the poor bugger’s screams.

  And then the doll-stealing incident, and Major Shelton’s . . .

  Zeal. Yes, that’s what it was . . . zeal. A very useful quality. You could never have too much zeal. When you’re overwhelmed and outgunned, good old-fashioned American zeal can get you to hell and back.

  Cochrane reached his office. And the door was open. He scratched his head. Did I leave it unlocked? he wondered. It wouldn’t be the first time. Cochrane turned the doorknob and walked into the outer office.

  He went to his secretary’s desk. She had been working on the annual fund-raising report just today. And Cochrane wanted to look at the figures. Maybe play with them a little bit. We could use some breathing room here at the school. Times were tough, and the budget had no give.

  “No give,” Cochrane said aloud, rummaging through his secretary’s desk. “Now, where the hell is . . .”

  He stopped.

  He heard a sound from inside his office. Mice? he wondered. We’ve had that problem before.

  Cochrane stood up by his desk.

  “Hello?” he said.

  He listened again. No one answered. And there were no sounds.

  Probably nothing, he thought. The building settling. The wind, the rain.

  He walked toward the inner office. He looked inside, seeing his display cabinet—his treasures—all in order. He looked at his desk. And he saw a cannister of pencils lying on its side. And the cannister was rolling . . .

  As if it had just been knocked over.

  One pencil rolled to the edge of the desk, and then over the side to the floor.

  Okay, he thought.

  The air felt cold.

  Cochrane, never one to shrink from battle, did have this thought: Maybe I should just back up out of here and close the door.

  He watched the cannister, rocking back and forth slowly, until it came to a stop.

  The wind whistled. A spook house shriek. Cochrane smiled at his own sudden fear. The wind blew it over. This damn old building, filled with cracks. The wind just cut right through it. There’s another item for the budget! Storm windows.

  He walked to his desk, to the pencil can.

  The Colonel reached out and righted the can. He gathered the pencils and let them tum
ble noisily into the cannister.

  But one rolled off. Cochrane walked around the desk, to where the pencil had rolled off. The wind shrieked at him.

  He looked down.

  And there was the doll.

  Cochrane yelped. Entirely out of character. But damn, the doll scared him, sitting there, propped up against the desk. Cochrane furrowed his brow. How could the doll end up here? Is this Shelton’s doll—the one he said was stolen? Or is this the doll I put in the garbage?

  Or are they one and the same doll?

  It’s all very confusing.

  And whichever is the case, how in god’s name did it end up here?

  And then he had this belated thought.

  A disturbing, confusing thought.

  Was it really the wind that knocked over the can of pencils?

  Cochrane bent down and picked up the doll. He looked at it. Homely looking thing, he thought. All those freckles, a pug nose. And that hair. Like some kind of fright wig. Cochrane shook his head. Certainly wouldn’t want a student to look like this.

  He laughed. And said, “No way.”

  The doll had something on its lips, something red. God, it looks like someone had put lipstick on the doll. And that brought other fears to mind for Cochrane. Sometimes boys and girls get into peculiar things when they’re away from home. You had to keep a close watch on them. They could act strange.

  Lipstick on a doll.

  Cochrane gave the toy a squeeze.

  And suddenly the bright blue eyes blinked. The head swung around.

  And it spoke.

  “I like to be hugged!”

  Cochrane nearly dropped the doll. But then it came to rest again. It must have done that because I squeezed it, he guessed. He laughed. A little laugh. Swallowed by the gloom of the dark office.

  Well, if this is Shelton’s, for his sister, I’d best get it back to him. Have him call off his torturing of Bravo Company.

  Cochrane turned and started for the door out of the office. He slammed shut the drawer to his secretary’s desk. I’ll get the report tomorrow, Cochrane thought.

  He moved out into the hall, closing the office door behind him, and starting to whistle again. Dragging the doll behind him. The doll was heavy. It would be quite a load for a little kid.

  He dragged the doll—and then he felt movement. The doll’s arm kind of flexed. He definitely felt movement there. And then the arm twisted, while the doll’s other hand pushed against Cochrane’s grasp.

  It pushed hard, and finally the doll’s hand popped free.

  “What?” Cochrane said. Thinking: This is one amazing doll. This is some doll. It can really move, as if it’s alive.

  The doll sprung free and landed on the floor. Its tiny sneakers made a slapping noise on the stone floor.

  Cochrane turned to the doll. God, he thought. What’s it going to do now? Run away?

  But when he turned, he saw that the doll stood there, looking at him. Really looking, and then he saw the knife.

  “Wha . . .” Cochrane said.

  The doll brought the knife up. Cochrane stepped backward.

  No, he thought. This isn’t real. The doll took a step. The doll smiled, and its tongue lolled out. A doll with a tongue!

  Cochrane tried to breathe. All of a sudden the air felt hot and dense. He gasped at the air. Another step backward, another gasp.

  The doll tilted its head, confused.

  Cochrane shook his head back at it.

  He gulped the air. Trying to breathe. He heard a thumping inside his head.

  My medicine, he thought. My heart pills, I need my pills but they’re, they’re . . .

  The doll slashed at the air. It grinned at him.

  The thumping grew in his brain. Cochrane felt his hands and arms go numb; his legs felt like sticks. There were red and yellow and blue flashes in front of his eyes. Fireworks inside his skull. The same color as the clothes on this doll.

  Cochrane felt the pain bloom in his chest. Like a stain, spreading from the left side, throughout his torso. He brought his hand up, as if it could stop the pain.

  Stop the heart attack.

  But that only signaled the end.

  There was one last burst of color. A loud roar, the final crash inside his skull. His legs gave way as Cochrane choked, trying to suck in more air.

  And he fell to the ground before the doll.

  18

  Chucky watched the colonel collapse before him.

  “Aw, you gotta be kiddin’ me.” He walked close to Cochrane and poked him with the knife point. But Cochrane’s eyes were wide open—fun-house eyes.

  Except:

  “This is no fun,” he said.

  Here I was going to have a nice party with the old general, and he dies in front of me. Dies of fright. Chucky grinned at that thought. Hey, I’m scarier than ’Nam. Oh, yeah. One look at me with a pigsticker, and John Wayne kicks the bucket.

  Chucky walked around the dead body—just to make sure the idiot wasn’t playing possum. Every few steps he jabbed Cochrane’s body with his knife, trying to get it to stir.

  Nope, he thought. All the fun is out of this one.

  Yes siree.

  He saw the pocket of Cochrane’s sweatpants. Chucky dug his small hand in and felt a great loop of keys. That’s cool, he thought. Now I have the run of the place.

  Great.

  And then, he was back at Cochrane’s head. The mouth was open, a gummy pit that Chucky could smell. He didn’t like that. It’s not a good thing that I can smell it. Because if I can smell it, things are moving along.

  This damn body could become mine forever.

  No way, Jack.

  Chucky gave Cochrane’s cheek another poke. Out for the count, poor bastard.

  He looked at Cochrane’s eyes. Funny, how people look when they’re dead. The big fish eyes, the pupils shrunk to tiny dots. They look as if they just saw their worst nightmare—and couldn’t deal with it.

  Or maybe that’s how they look after I’ve dealt with them.

  He chuckled at that.

  And he remembered when he knew he had found his life’s work.

  It started with stealing—ripping-off wealthy idiots who had too much stuff and needed someone to help them share it. Income redistribution.

  His first partner was an old pro, a guy who knew everything about breaking and entering, a guy who had done two terms in the Illinois State Penitentiary. A real pro.

  And, remembered Chucky, the only reason he liked working with me was that I would do anything. I’d walk up to someone’s door in broad daylight. Ring the bell. Knock the whatever. And if someone opened the door, looking for the Electrolux man or Federal Express, they’d see me. If they opened the door a crack, I was in.

  My partner liked it when people weren’t home.

  Me, I preferred it the other way.

  One time I discovered what Damballa wanted from me. It was a simple concept—it just took time coming.

  I could have Damballa’s protection, his power. But there was a price.

  Damballa needed something from these people. Some kind of energy generated by their fear, their pain.

  I was Damballa’s emissary. His apostle.

  I’d get us inside the house, Chucky remembered. And after we had all the stuff out of the house—the silver, the cash, and any electronic garbage worth selling—the old pro left me alone.

  With the person being robbed.

  He didn’t want her talking. Couldn’t have that, now could we?

  I’d do anything. And he knew it.

  And that’s when the woman’s eyes would go bug wild, spinning around inside her head like a cartoon character dancing on a hot plate. She was gagged so there were no screams.

  And that only made her terror worse.

  It seemed so natural, Chucky remembered.

  I’d spread out my gloved hands like a virtuoso about to play a masterpiece. My hands. That’s all I’d need.

  And I took forever to do it
. Walking up to the woman; she rattled the chair, rocking it back and forth. Small, muffled grunts escaped from her gag.

  What are you saying? I said. What do you want?

  You want me to put my hands around your neck? Is that what you want?

  Jeez, I don’t know now. But if that’s what you want. Well, okay. And that was so funny. Humor, always a trademark of mine. Leave them laughing.

  The laughing dead.

  And the feel of her neck—it was like discovering one’s medium. Some people work with clay, some shape wood.

  I work with necks.

  It look a long time, the first one.

  Charles Ray’s partner eventually came inside, hissing at him. What the hell’s taking so long? he’d asked.

  Can’t rush good work, Charles Ray thought.

  He finished up. Making those spinning bug eyes go still. And then he turned and left.

  Feeling very good.

  The newspaper gave me a name, Chucky remembered. So many years ago. A name . . .

  The Lakeshore Strangler.

  So many years ago.

  Chucky stepped away from Cochrane, away from the dead man. The night custodian will probably bop along soon and find the stiff.

  And Chucky thought: The Lakeshore Strangler will live again. Oh, yes. Just as soon as Tyler grows up, eats his Wheaties. Only this time, I’ll never get caught.

  Experience is a great teacher.

  Chucky tossed the keys in the air, caught them, and hurried away.

  Andy pulled his jacket tight. He stood on the portico with most of the other cadets. The rain had stopped, and there was a pale light in the east.

  It was dawn. Day two in Wonderland.

  The wind chilled his naked scalp as he watched the paramedics wheel out the stretcher.

  Cochrane was dead. Heart attack. And it seemed as if the entire school was out here to watch the colonel leave Kent for the last time.

  The red bubble light on top of the ambulance flashed, rotating around. No rush here, thought Andy. Cochrane, rumor had it, was dead. DOA.

  The stretcher appeared, and Andy saw that Cochrane’s face was covered. Change that rumor to a fact, thought Andy.

  And what about Tyler, Andy wondered? What happened to Tyler last night . . . and Chucky?

  He saw some of the younger cadets on the other side of the ambulance. He spotted Tyler. The kid smiled at him and waved. Like he was at a parade. Andy laughed. He’s only a little kid. He doesn’t understand the protocol of death.