Linda watched her husband and her daughter fight their tickle-war as Doreen struggled to be a part of it in her desperate, doggy way.
Sarah was special. The cone-head had gone away within hours, of course, and as the years moved on, Sarah had only grown more beautiful. She seemed to skip caterpillar, going straight to butterfly, hold the cocoon. Linda wasn’t sure where it came from.
“Maybe we’ll get lucky,” Sam would joke. “Maybe she’ll get ugly when she becomes a teenager and keep me from having to buy a shotgun.”
Linda didn’t think so. She was pretty sure that her munchkin was going to be a head-turner.
“I think she’s just the best parts of both of us,” Sam had said once.
Linda liked that explanation.
19
SARAH HAD BABBLED NONSTOP THROUGH SUPPER ABOUT HER birthday, all excited eyes and energy. Linda wondered how in the world she was going to get her calm enough to go to sleep. A common parental problem, the “Christmas Syndrome.”
At least during Christmas, she could tell Sarah that Santa wouldn’t come unless she went to sleep. Birthdays were more of a challenge.
“Do you think I’ll get a lot of presents, Mommy?”
Sam looked at his daughter, puzzled. “Presents? Why would you get presents?”
Sarah ignored her father. “And a big cake, Mommy?”
Sam shook his head, regretful. “Definitely no cake,” he said. “Girl’s gone wonky in the head. Soft in the noggin.”
“Daddy!” Sarah rebuked.
Linda smiled. “Plenty of cake and presents, babe. But you’re going to have to wait,” she cautioned. “The party isn’t until after lunch, you know that.”
“I know. But I wish it was like Christmas, where you get your presents in the morning!”
Bingo, Linda thought. Sneaky, yet obvious. Why didn’t I think of it before?
“I’ll tell you what, sweetie,” she said. “If you go to bed tonight—on time—and don’t give me any hassle about it, I’ll let you open a present in the morning. How’s that sound?”
“Really?”
“Really. If”—she held up a finger—“you go to bed on time.”
Sarah nodded her head in that overenthusiastic way of small children, head all the way back, then chin to chest, repeat.
“Then it’s a deal.”
Sam was putting his daughter to bed. Buster followed them as always, his routine. Doreen was the kind of dog that loved everybody. She’d probably lead a burglar through the house with her tail wagging, glad for the company, hopeful she’d get a treat for being helpful. Buster loved too, but his love was sparing, his view of the world more suspicious. He picked few people to love, but those people were his, and he loved them with his whole self.
He loved Sarah most of all, and slept with her in her bed each night.
Sarah was under the covers. Buster jumped up and nestled beside her, resting his head on her small stomach.
“All set, munchkin?”
“Kiss!” she said, stretching her arms out toward him.
Sam leaned forward, planting a kiss on her forehead, accepting her gossamer hug.
“How about now?” he asked.
Her eyes popped open wide. “My Little Pony!” she cried.
“My Little Pony” was a child’s character, mixing fairy-stuff with pony-stuff, resulting in improbable light blue ponies with manes of pink. Sarah had a doll version that she slept with.
“Hmmm…” Sam said, looking around. “Where is My Little Donkey?”
“Daddy!” Sarah half-yelled, a mix of exasperation and delight.
Fathers tease their daughters in many ways; this was one of Sam’s. It had started a year ago, him substituting “donkey” for “pony.” At first Sarah’s distress had been real, but over time it had become a tradition between them, something he knew they’d laugh about together when she was older.
He found it on the floor next to her bed and deposited it into her waiting hands. She hugged it to her, wiggling farther under the blankets. The movement forced Buster to move his head. He glared and sighed, a deep, doggy-sigh. The lot of an unappreciated animal, he seemed to be saying.
“How about now?” Sam asked.
“You need to leave, Daddy,” Sarah admonished. “I got to go to sleep so I can wake up and open my present.”
“Propen your mesent?” he said, puzzled.
She giggled. Sarah loved when Sam made up spoonerisms—where you reversed the first letters of two words, like the “the spork and the foon.” She thought that was the mat’s ceow.
“Olive juice, munchkin.”
“Olive juice, Daddy.”
Another one of their silly traditions. If you mouthed “olive juice,” it looked from a distance like you were saying “I love you.” Sam had demonstrated this to Sarah when she was four. She’d thought it was the most brilliant thing ever, well worth repeating a few thousand times. Now they said it to each other every night.
He had no way of knowing this would be the second-to-last time he’d ever say it.
Sarah squinched her eyes shut, and petted Buster, and tried to make her brain turn off.
Tomorrow was her birthday! She’d be six, almost a grown-up, which was interesting, but the presents, that’s what she was most excited about.
She looked around at her walls, lit by the hallway bulb that came through the half-open doorway to her room. They were covered with paintings her mother had done. Her eyes searched for and found her favorite: the baby, alone in the forest.
Someone hearing about it, not seeing it, might think it was a scary picture. But it wasn’t, not at all.
The baby, a girl, was peaceful, lying on a bed of moss, eyes closed. Trees were to the left of her, a brook to the right. The sun was out, the sky had some clouds in it, and if you looked close, you could see a smiling face in those clouds, looking down on the baby girl.
“Is it watching her, Mommy?”
“That’s right, honey. Even though she’s alone in the forest, she’s never really alone, because the woman in the clouds is watching over her.”
Sarah had stared at the picture, loving it.
“The baby is me, isn’t it, Mommy? And the cloud-lady—that’s you.”
Her mother had smiled then, the smile Sarah loved so much. It had no secrets, no hidden meanings. It was just the sun, dazzling and happy and warm on your face.
“That’s right, babe. That’s what it is, for you and me and anyone else who looks at it.”
Sarah had been puzzled. “It’s you for other people too?”
“No, it’s Mommy for other people. They could be grown-ups, out in the world, away from their mommies, but they’re never alone, because Mommy is always there.” She’d grabbed her daughter, had hugged her in a spontaneous motion that had made Sarah laugh out loud. “That’s what mommies are, and what they do. They watch over you forever.”
The painting had been a gift on her fifth birthday. It hung on the wall that faced the foot of her bed, a talisman.
Her mother never bought her birthday gifts. She made them. Sarah loved them all. She couldn’t wait to see what she was going to get tomorrow.
She squinched her eyes shut again, and petted Buster (who licked her hand) and willed her brain to turn off.
She fell asleep once she stopped trying, a smile on her face.
The first thing Sarah realized when she woke up was that Buster wasn’t there. This was strange; the dog went to sleep when she did, and got up when she did, every day.
The second thing she noticed was that the sun wasn’t shining. This too was strange. It was night when she closed her eyes, morning when she opened them. That’s the way it worked.
There was something about this dark. Something heavy and scary. It no longer felt like the dark before her birthday. This felt like the dark of a closet when you got locked in. Stuffy, hot, close.
“Mommy?” she whispered. Part of her wondered why she didn’t say it louder. If she really want
ed her mother to hear her, why was she whispering?
Her six-year-old mind provided the answer: because she was afraid something else would hear too. Whatever it was that was creating this scary dark.
Her heart was beating so fast, her breath was coming even faster, she was headed toward full-blown terror, the place of waking up after a nightmare, except that in those times, she always had Buster, and now Buster wasn’t here—
Look at the picture, stupid, she ordered herself.
She found her mother’s painting in the dark. The baby, asleep on the moss, peaceful and safe. She fixed her gaze on the face in the clouds. The face that meant Mommy, that pushed back this scary dark, that said Buster was in the backyard, that he’d used the doggy-door to relieve himself, that she’d just woken up because he was gone, and that soon he’d be back and she’d fall asleep again and wake up in the morning, and it would be her birthday.
Her heart stopped hammering as she thought these things. Her breathing slowed and her fear began to subside. She even started to feel silly.
Almost a grown-up and acting afraid of the dark like a little baby, she chided herself.
Then she heard the voice and she knew it was the voice of a stranger, here in her house, in the dark. The terror returned and her heart skipped. She froze, eyes too wide.
“‘I never saw a wild thing sorry for itself,’” the voice intoned, moving toward her door. “‘A small bird will drop frozen dead from a bough without ever having felt sorry for itself.’”
The voice wasn’t deep or high, but somewhere in between.
“Do you hear me, Sarah? A famous poet named D. H. Lawrence wrote those words.”
He was standing outside her door. Her teeth chattered, though she was unaware of it.
This was beyond terror. This was waking up from a nightmare to find that the thing in the nightmare had followed you out, was shambling down the hallway toward your room to hug you, to hold you tight while it laughed and moaned and you screamed and lost your mind.
“We could learn a lot from the wild things. Pity, for yourself or for others, is useless. Life will go on whether you live or die, whether you’re happy or unhappy. Life doesn’t care. Ruthlessness, now that’s a useful emotion. God is ruthless. That is a part of his beauty and his power. To do what is right, consequences or deaths of innocents be damned.”
He paused. Sarah could almost hear him breathing. She could also hear her own heart, so loud she thought her eardrums were going to burst.
“Buster didn’t feel sorry for himself, Sarah. I want you to know that he came right for me. No hesitation. He knew I was here for you, and he ran toward me without thinking about it twice. He was going to kill me to save you.”
Another pause. Then a chuckle, low and long.
“I want you to know that so you understand: Buster’s dead because he loved you.”
The door flew open wide, and The Stranger was there, and he threw something onto Sarah’s bed.
The light from the hallway lit up the object: Buster’s severed head, teeth still bared, eyes wide with rage.
Sarah unfroze then. She began to scream.
20
“I NEED YOU TO WATCH, SARAH, AND I NEED YOU TO LISTEN. This is the start of something.”
They were in the living room. Mommy and Daddy sat on chairs with handcuffs around their wrists and ankles. They were naked. Seeing her father nude embarrassed Sarah and added to her terror. Doreen was lying on the floor, watching them all, unaware that anything was wrong.
Stay stupid, puppyhead, Sarah thought, and maybe he won’t kill you like he killed Buster.
Sarah was seated on the couch in her nightgown, handcuffed as well.
The Stranger, as she thought of the man, was standing. He had a gun in his hand. He had panty hose pulled over his head. The panty hose stretched and twisted his features, made it look as though his face had been melted by a blowtorch.
Her fear was still there, still strong, but it had moved away from her. It was a scream in the distance. It was a waiting, a terrible waiting, the executioner’s axe frozen at its apex.
Her parents were terrified. Their mouths were covered with tape but their eyes showed their fear. Sarah sensed they were more afraid for her than themselves.
He walked over next to her daddy and leaned forward so that he could look into Sam’s eyes.
“I know what you’re thinking, Sam. You want to know why. Believe me, I wish that I could tell you. I wish it more than anything. But Sarah’s listening, you see, and she might tell others, later. I can’t have my story being told until I’m ready.
“I can say two things: It’s not your fault, Linda, but your death is my justice. It’s not Sarah’s fault, but her pain is my justice. I know, you don’t understand. That’s all right. You don’t need to understand, you just need to know that these things are true.”
He stood up.
“Let’s talk about pain. Pain is a form of energy. It can be created, like electricity. It can flow, like a current. It can be steady or it can pulse. It can be powerful and agonizing, or weak and just annoying. Pain can force a man to talk. What a lot of people don’t know is that pain can also force a man to think. It can form a man, mold a man, make him who he is.
“I know pain. I understand it. It’s taught me things. One of the things I’ve learned is that while people fear pain, they can tolerate much, much more of it than they think. If, for example, I tell you that I’m going to jam a needle into your arm, you’ll become fearful. If I actually do it, the pain will seem excruciating. But if I do it again, every hour on the hour, for a year, you’ll learn to adjust. You’ll never like it, but you’ll no longer fear it. And that is what this will be about.”
The Stranger turned his gaze on Sarah.
“I’m going to stick that metaphorical pin into Sarah. Over and over and over, for years and years and years. I’m going to use the pain to sculpt her, like an artist. I’ll make her over into my own image, and I will call her what she’ll become: A Ruined Life.”
“Please don’t hurt my mommy and daddy,” Sarah said. She was surprised to hear her own voice. It sounded strange, far away, too calm for what was happening.
The Stranger was surprised as well. He seemed to approve, nodding and smiling with his melted face. “Good! There it is: love. I want you to remember this moment in the future, Sarah. I want you to think back and mark this as the last time you were without real pain. Trust me, it will sustain you in the coming years.” He paused, examining her face. “Now, hush, and watch.”
She watched as he turned toward her parents. Things still felt dreamy to her, all hazy and indistinct. Fear was there, horror was there, tears were there, but they were pinpricks in the distance. Things shouting at her from the horizon. She had to strain to hear them, and her reluctance to do so was heavy, crushing, a weight she couldn’t lift.
She’d looked into Buster’s dead eyes, she’d screamed, and then her heart had gone away. Not for good, and not far, but far enough that she didn’t have to listen to it shriek.
Buster…
There was anguish waiting in that word, a pain powerful enough to suck a soul under forever. At some level, she knew Buster was only the beginning. The Stranger was more than a black tide, he was an ocean of darkness. A huge, empty nothing in human form with a gravitational presence strong enough to bend light waves and laugh sounds and goodness.
The correct instinct of a civilized society is to protect the young from evil, but in doing so, society sometimes loses sight of a basic truth: A child is always ready to believe in the existence of monsters.
Sarah knew The Stranger was a monster. She had accepted this as a totality the moment he’d thrown Buster’s severed head onto her bed.
“Sam and Linda Langstrom,” The Stranger spoke, “please listen carefully. The thing you need to understand is that death’s inevitable. I’m going to kill you both. You need to dismiss any hopes you might have that you’re going to live. Instead, you need to
focus on what you can control: what happens to Sarah.”
Linda Langstrom’s heart had sped up when the man said he was going to kill them. She couldn’t help it; the desire to live was visceral. But when he told them that Sarah’s fate was still undecided, her heartbeat had actually slowed. She’d been looking at Sarah, worrying, only half-listening to the man. Now she turned her eyes to him, forced herself to focus.
The Stranger smiled. “Yes. There it is. That’s one mix of love other than the love of God that comes close to having real power—mother to child. Mothers will kill, torture, and maim to save a child. They’ll lie and steal and prostitute themselves to feed a child. There’s a certain divinity to it. But nothing is ever as strong as the strength achieved when you give yourself over to God.”
He leaned forward until his eyes were level with Linda’s. “I have that strength. Because of that, I get to kill you. Because of that, I get to do my work with Sarah. Because of that, I never have to apologize. The strong don’t have to be sorry. All they have to do is continue to breathe.” He stood back up. “So, what does that kind of strength do when it’s defied by a lesser love? It demonstrates its power by forcing choices. And now I’m going to give you some choices, Linda. Are you ready?”
Linda looked at The Stranger’s face, examined the panty-hose-twisted features. She realized that trying to bargain with this man would be like bargaining with a rock, a block of wood, a rattlesnake. She was nothing to him, nothing at all. She answered his question with a nod.
“Good,” he replied.
Was it her imagination, or was he breathing faster now? Getting excited?
“Here is the scenario. Sam, you need to listen to this as well.”
He didn’t need to demand Sam’s attention; Sam had never taken his eyes off the man. Sam had been staring at The Stranger, his heart filled with a hate so pure it was almost unbearable. His desire to murder this man was excruciating.
Just let me get these cuffs off, he raged inside, and I’ll tear you apart. I’ll slam your head against the floor until your skull cracks and I see your brain…
The Face of Death Page 18
