“Oh, God!”
She charged away from the house, running with all she had, her legs flying out from under her, her feet pounding the pavement, each step shaking and jarring her body. Her chest ached from the pain of breathing, but she couldn’t stop. The momentum she achieved by running downhill with all her might carried her beyond herself. She felt as though she were flying. She didn’t look back once, but she thought she heard a chorus of parents and children, all of them in the doorways of their homes, reciting the same line, practically singing it as she rushed by their houses.
“Everyone’s going to know; everyone in the development is going to know.”
She brought her hands to her ears.
“No!” she screamed, running until the entrance to the development came into view. She stumbled, caught herself, and ran on, hoping she’d be safe once she left the grounds of Elysian Fields. For now she felt as if she were being chased by more than one creature; she was being pursued by every resident.
She charged at the gate like a convict seeing an opportunity to escape a life sentence. But just as she was about to burst out, the security guard appeared, seemingly from out of nowhere, and she couldn’t prevent herself from rushing right into his awaiting arms.
They closed around her like two thick python snakes, and she collapsed in their grip, exhausted and defeated. She fought hard to remain conscious.
Justine looked up into the security guard’s face. It was a blur, but she thought it was a weatherworn face, the skin dry with deep wrinkles in the forehead, the teeth bone white, the eyes yellowish gray.
“You can’t just run out of here,” he said. And then she heard him add, “Everyone’s going to know; everyone in the development is going to know.”
She passed out, convinced she had fled directly into the arms of another awaiting creature.
“Why did she run from me like that?” he asked after he put the light out in her room so his second self could emerge from the closet safely.
“What did you expect? She’s afraid. She doesn’t understand all this. Look what she’s been through. And don’t forget, your father’s been influencing her all this time. He brought her back down here after she returned to the house, didn’t he?”
“Yeah, you’re right. What am I going to do?”
“Go after her, but go slowly, and try not to overwhelm her. There’s time to tell her things afterward. You tend to talk too much. Just do what has to be done. There will be time for talking later, lots of talking, endless talking.”
“Right. You know, I am glad I brought you along now.”
“Tell me something I don’t know. Go ahead, carefully.”
He fumbled with the doorknob until he got the door unlocked and opened.
“It’s very bright out here.”
“Hit the hall light switch.”
He turned off the light, then he and his second self made their way down the corridor to the stairway.
“Go on, there are sufficient shadows. I’m right behind you.”
He went down the stairs and out the way he had entered—through the rear door of the house. Then he hurried around to the front in time to see her turn away from the house next door.
He had to run to keep up with her, and he had to stay away from the bright streetlights. His second self was doing well, too, keeping right behind her, until his father came down the hill in his black Cadillac and turned his headlights on them. He left the street, driving directly at them, crossing a lawn to do so. There was no way to avoid the bright, wide high beams. It took only seconds. He looked behind him and saw his second self instantly burn away. He barely had time to scream, and what emerged was quickly silenced by the hot illumination.
He was alone again.
His father got out of the car, keeping the lights on him. He was unable to move out of the rays; they held him like chains.
“Eugene,” he said. “Come to the car.”
He didn’t move.
“Now, Eugene,” he commanded.
He looked longingly in the direction the girl had run, then turned obediently toward his father’s car. Without further hesitation, he marched to the vehicle, his head down.
“You’ve been bad again, Eugene,” his father said. “Very bad. We’re going to have to start all over now.”
He turned to look back at the darkness, where the car lights held back the wall of black. His second self lay disintegrated on the grass.
“You killed him,” he said.
“Get in the car, Eugene,” his father replied, looking down the road toward the front gate. “Quickly. I have other things to do now.”
“I’ll be alone forever.”
“You were always alone, Eugene. You just never knew it. Now get in,” he repeated, the tone of command even sterner.
He couldn’t resist it. He slid into the back seat, and his father returned to the driver’s seat.
As his father backed the vehicle onto the road and turned around, he studied the darkness where the light had been, hoping for some miraculous resurrection of his second self as the light retreated and the darkness rushed back. But that did not occur. He had lost the most important part of himself, and there was nothing he could do about it. There weren’t any wires to detach and reattach. It wasn’t the same thing. He lowered his head in depression.
“You did a very bad thing, Eugene,” his father said, looking at him through the rearview mirror. “For a very long time now, you haven’t done anything unless I told you to do it. Why did you do that to Mildred?”
“I had to.”
“Why?”
“I didn’t want her to stop me.”
“Stop you from doing what? What were you doing down here, running around with that machete in your hand?”
He looked down in his hand. The machete was still there. It had almost become a part of him.
“I…was going to bring her back.”
“Bring her back? Bring who back?”
He smiled. He could almost hear his second self. “Whom.”
“What?”
“It’s bring whom back, not who.”
“This is no time to worry about grammar, Eugene. Well,” his father said, turning into the driveway of their home, “you’re going to help me with Mildred, and then we’re going to go into the lab. I’m going to check you out.” The garage door went up. “Put that machete back in the tool chest, and go to your room—quickly!” his father ordered.
But when the garage door opened, the garage light went on and low and behold, whom did he see standing there, unaffected by the illumination—his second self. And he was smiling.
“He’s back,” he said. “He’s back!”
“What? Who’s back?”
His father brought the car to a halt, but he jumped out before his father did.
“What happened? How did you get back?”
“I don’t know. We thought the light was deadly, but all it did was send me back here. Imagine.”
“This is great.”
“What’s great, Eugene?” his father asked, getting out of the car.
“He’s back. The light didn’t destroy him,” he said.
“Who’s back?” His father looked toward the door to the house. “What the hell are you talking about now?”
He didn’t respond. He directed his attention to his second self.
“He wants me to help him with Mildred.”
“Of course he does. He always wants you to do something you don’t want to do. It’s been that way for as long as you can remember, hasn’t it?”
“Yes, it has.”
“Get that machete back in the tool chest and get into the house, Eugene,” his father said.
“Don’t do it. Turn around and go back down there. You can still get her.”
“Eugene, didn’t you hear me?” His father tapped him on the shoulder.
“I’ve got to do what he says. I always have.”
“He’s not your father.”
; “Huh?”
“It’s not your father. Don’t listen.”
He turned and looked into his father’s eyes and realized his second self was right. These eyes were like glass. He could see right through them to the other side. It was another one of his father’s creations, not his father.
“Eugene, move. Now.”
“Where’s my father?” he said.
“What?”
“Where is he?” he demanded. “What have you done to him?”
“Get into that house and go right to the lab. I don’t want to hear any more of this gibberish, understand? Move. Now!”
“Don’t listen. He’s only a projection; he’s all light and no substance,” his second self said. “You’ll see.”
“Yes,” he said, and the illusion of his father relaxed, thinking he had said “yes” to him and was about to obey his order.
But he wasn’t.
He was about to prove what his second self said.
He brought the machete up swiftly, grasping it with both hands as he raised it, and drove it hard into the illusion’s stomach, cutting a quick incision up and into the heart. Blood rushed up and out of his father’s mouth as he grasped the machete to keep it from moving any farther. Then, he suddenly stopped resisting. It was as though the current had been shut off. All the lights and all the little motors stopped immediately.
He collapsed, then slid off the machete and folded to the garage floor.
“I don’t know,” he said. “I don’t know. He didn’t disappear.” He looked at his blood-soaked hands. “There’s real blood. I don’t know.”
He turned quickly to confront his second self, only his second self was gone.
“Hey!” He looked around the garage. He was all alone. “Hey, where are you? Hey!”
There was no response. He’s inside, he thought. He went inside. He looked down at his father’s body, then rushed into the house. Much of it was dark.
“Where are you? Come on out.”
There was no response. He went through the house, switching on lights everywhere, but he didn’t find him. He checked closets, searched behind doors, even looked behind curtains. He saw the nurse still on the floor of his room, her blood caked around her neck, her eyes wide but dull. Finally, he returned to the garage, but still, he didn’t find him.
“Where are you?” he shouted. He ran out and looked down at the development. “Come back,” he shouted. His voice reverberated down the hill toward the homes. “Don’t leave me alone, please!”
He waited, but he heard nothing. He looked back at the house, then down at the development. The machete was still in his hand.
There was a word coming to him, a word coming back to him, rushing toward him like wind through a tunnel. He could feel it coming, and when it reached his conscious mind, his eyes bulged. His mouth widened, and the veins in his neck strained as he lifted his head toward the stars.
“Mommy!” he screamed. “Mommy!”
Then he charged down the hill, running as she had run from him, picking up a momentum that carried him beyond himself until he lost all control of his limbs, until he was just a thought attached to a body flying through the air, pounding the pavement, running right down the center of those well-lit streets, under the hum of the lights, past the perfect, beautiful houses with the toy families, running toward the crowd of people who were gathering below at the front gate, all standing around his mother, waiting for him to take her back.
He raised the machete and charged forward, screaming one incoherent syllable. The crowd began to part and back away so that the security guard, kneeling over her body, could raise his pistol.
But the bullets passed through his body painlessly, for he was all light and no substance. This was why he couldn’t find his second self; he was his second self. They had merged after he had driven the machete into his father. He laughed at the realization, then watched his body peal away and fall to the pavement, rolling over and over until it came to a stop at the edge of the street, just beyond the pool of light, just inside the darkness. He continued on, floating through the air until he was out of the development, out of Elysian Fields, safe, away, beyond the reach of anything painful and evil.
Epilogue
The Elysian Fields clubhouse was crowded and noisy. Normally, it was a well-lit, comfortably air-conditioned light oakwood paneled room. But today, almost as if the development itself were in rebellion, the air conditioner did not work well, and two of the fluorescent bulbs had blown out. Also, a custodian was having trouble with the microphone. A connector plug appeared frayed and was shorting out. He was working frantically to splice on a new plug.
A lectern and a small, light maple-wood table had been placed at the front of the room which was filled with every available folding chair. Some people in the crowd were directing their families as close to the front as possible. But some people stood aimlessly near the doorway, looking lost and confused.
Dr. Michael Feinberg, a six-foot-two-inch rather gaunt fifty-one-year-old man with coal-black, curly hair that grew in thick patches, stood in the far right front corner, smirking and shaking his head. A few days ago, he had told Agent John Hersh of the FBI and Sandburg Police Chief Jack Daws that some of these people were not completely detoxified. It was almost a waste to bring them here, but the two law-enforcement agents were eager to get this underway, and the FBI was especially anxious to end the continuous media coverage, coverage that began the night Dr. Lawrence was killed, and continued on the front pages, right up until today.
Once the explanations were presented and people were permitted to return to their homes, it was expected that the media would move on to something else. Representatives of the electronic and print media were present. They had arrived early enough to hoard the front-row seats. Photographers and cameramen had set up their equipment in the corner, so as not to block anyone’s view. This presentation was not for them as much as it was for the residents of Elysian Fields.
Or, as Dr. Feinberg referred to them now, the victims. The agency had assigned him and his staff to the case as soon as they’d heard the news. Embarrassment aside, they had an obligation to these people; he was here to “mop up.” They’d sent him because he had worked with Felix Lawrence. He knew the man; he knew what the man knew, and he knew what he had been capable of doing.
He had always been suspicious about Dr. Lawrence’s abrupt departure from the project. Even though he’d suffered a rather horrible family tragedy, Felix had never impressed him with his emotions. He’d never thought of Felix as a devoted husband and father. Now, Feinberg’s worst fears had come true. Felix Lawrence had been one of those special kind of madmen—brilliantly schizophrenic: suave, impressive, caring, and loving on the outside, but insanely ruthless and unfeeling on the inside. It was no accident that his victims worshipped him, even as he carefully and skillfully worked to destroy them.
He was a high-tech Iago, a Shakespearean villain in the most traditional and dramatic sense, convincing his victims that he loved and respected them as he destroyed them. Few, if any, were a match for his wit, for his charm, and for his evil nature.
And so, in streamed his victims, dazed and confused. Actually more like children, Feinberg thought. He watched them take their seats, their faces still marked with fear and shock. They moved tentatively, their eyes darting around to be sure they weren’t violating some rule. Some of them were like beaten-down puppy dogs, afraid to raise their heads or stare too long at anyone or anything.
Mop up, he thought. How could he do that when even he wasn’t sure of the extent of the damage? The main thing was to assure these people that they could be helped. The ironic part was that they looked up to him much the way they had idolized Felix. His words were gospel. He’d learned that during these last ten days. Yet he didn’t want such trust; he didn’t want blind faith.
That was why he was sort of grateful for the girl—the one with the skeptical eyes, the one, who in a sense, had brought it all down—Justi
ne Freeman. She didn’t believe anything easily now, and he sensed that she was still suspicious of him. In a way, she was right, he thought. He had been working on the same project with Felix. Only, unlike Felix, he hadn’t had such an unrestricted group of subjects on which to experiment.
And if he had?
He saw that question in the girl’s eyes and thought…I don’t know; I don’t know what I would have done. The trouble with people like Felix and me is we get caught up in our work. Maybe science is the devil’s way to get at us, after all. He shuddered and drove these depressing thoughts from his mind as Agent Hersh and Chief Daws made their way toward the front of the room to greet him.
Hersh was the quintessential FBI man—tall, handsome, physically fit, and firm-looking, the defender of America who represented all that was good and wholesome. He had dark brown, short hair, slightly gray at the temples, almost as if it had been deliberately tinted to add a look of maturity. In his dark blue suit and matching tie, he walked with confidence and authority. The crowd of residents in the aisle parted quickly before him, as though he carried more of a religious than a bureaucratic significance.
Jack Daws, the thirty-eight-year-old chief of police, looked tired and haggard by comparison. He followed a step or two behind. He was nearly a half a foot shorter than Hersh. Although he had a wrestler’s physique—thick neck, wide shoulders, and narrow waist—he looked more like an overworked ball-park security guard in his light blue uniform than the head of a police department. It was apparent to Dr. Feinberg, right from the beginning, that all this—the particularly brutal murders, the national media attention, the heavy responsibilities—overwhelmed the small-town law enforcement officer.
The three men shook hands, looking like mourners who had met at a funeral parlor.
“Just about all the residents are here,” Jack said.
“I’ll give them some of the background, and then I’ll introduce you,” Hersh said. “I’d like you to give the technical end of this, making it as simple as possible. I stress, as simple as possible,” he added. “Don’t go any further with it than you have to.”
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