And he would start asking nervous questions about that machine, the giant drill that nearly killed Meyer and practically blew the whole lab up.
“What should I do with that?” he wanted to know.
Mr. Sullivan wanted the mess cleaned up. All of it. Mattson guessed that Sullivan wanted all signs of the “incident” removed, and that probably included the drill. Hell, it was probably damaged beyond repair anyway.
But Mattson didn’t want to take responsibility if it wasn’t.
“Look,” he said to the custodial foreman, “just haul it out back and . . .”
“Too big,” the guy said. “Too damn big to be moved through the lab doors.”
“Then break it into sections. But try not to just trash the thing. Maybe someone will want to look at it, maybe someone will want to salvage it.”
There was a pause, and Mattson knew this man and his crew could be . . . what?
A potential source of problems.
The reporters had stopped sniffing around Play Pals Toys. The company had effectively closed ranks, and the scandalmongers had come up with nothing.
But these guys, the custodians, were the bottom of the food chain here in Play Pals. They were probably open to offers of easy money. Pass them a hundred bucks and ask them anything. What really went on with that doll? And—take another fin, pal—anything else bizarro going on in there?
Yeah. We had a lab explode. They were working on a Good Guy doll . . .
The crew chief finally spoke. “Sure, Mr. Mattson,” he said. “Sure. No problem. I’ll take care of everything. May take a bit of time—heh, heh. But don’t you worry about a thing.”
Not a thing.
“Good,” Mattson said, and he put the phone down.
He leaned back in his chair and looked to the side, to the cabinet, to the top of the cabinet.
Where the repaired doll sat.
His first idea had been to drag the damn doll right down to their massive incinerator. It was a giant industrial monster that gobbled up tons of plastic and metal sprue each week, environmentally superheating the stuff into a thick resin. Some of it would be recycled; some of it would be carried away to the next wonderful landfill. Where some sleazoid developer would put a sign on the too-green grass: If You Lived Here, You’d Be Home By Now!
If you didn’t mind a little leukemia in the family.
Mattson looked at the doll. Sullivan had ordered him to get rid of it.
But what did that mean exactly? Destroy it?
Possibly. But what if something happened later? Yeah, what if there were more questions, more investigations? And Sullivan came back and said, Boyd, where’s the doll? What did he do with the doll?
Well, wouldn’t that be nice? Old Boyd would be hung out on the line to dry, his ass in the wringer. I melted him, Mr. Sullivan. I thought . . .
Yeah, he could see that scenario very clearly. Sullivan would have his rear covered while Mattson took the heat.
Mattson glared at the doll. It didn’t look all that much different from any other Good Guy. Mattson and nearly everyone else in the company was sick of that face. It was everywhere—on lunch boxes, coveralls, tiny tool kits, even sneaker laces. And every day Mattson drove to the factory, he passed that giant Good Guy, who kept waving at him.
The sick red hair, the freckles gone crazy on the chubby-cheeked face. All Mattson had to do now was just look at a Good Guy and he lost his appetite.
This one didn’t look any different from the hundreds of thousands of others, even if it was reconstructed. Oh, it was a bit off here and there. The hair had obviously just been slapped on, and quickly stapled to the head. And the face and eyes didn’t line up perfectly. In fact, the eyes looked almost recessed.
He got up from his desk.
No, he couldn’t get rid of the thing. That would be stupid . . . real dumb.
He reached out and picked up the doll.
“Mr. Sullivan wants you out of sight,” Mattson said to the air.
He waited. As if the doll would suddenly spring to life.
But it just stayed there, in his hands, staring out into space.
Just a piece of plastic and metal.
Mattson shook his head. The police should be watching that kid, Mattson thought. Andy Barclay, the brat who said the doll had come to life, that the doll was really Charles Lee Ray. Yeah, he’s the one I’d be watching.
Mattson put down the Good Guy.
Because, he thought, that kid’s gotta be one mighty sick puppy.
“Like it?”
Andy looked around the room. It was a lot bigger than his bedroom at home. It had two windows that let lots of light in. He liked that. The curtains and the wallpaper were both a pale blue, and the rug was a deep sea blue. He liked that too.
There were some posters . . . the Chicago Cubs, the Chicago Bears. It was a nice room.
“It’s neat,” Andy said.
He saw a chest of some kind at the foot of the bed. He walked over to it.
“You like blue?” Joanne said.
Andy nodded. He knelt down before the chest and opened the lid. It was filled with toys! G.I. Joe figures and Cobra’s War Wagon—something he had always wanted. He pawed through the pile. Underneath were more G.I. Joe soldiers, a missile launcher, and—he couldn’t believe it—a Micro-Machine Aircraft Carrier.
“Wow!” he said.
“I thought you’d like that.”
Things were definitely looking better now, he thought. This was like finding a secret treasure chest crammed with neat toys.
But then, as he dug out the Joe Team’s missile launcher, he remembered his last birthday.
Mom never had much money. It was hard for her to buy clothes for him and toys. She worked real hard at the store, working overtime.
She had worked late the night she brought him Chucky. Aunt Maggie, really just her mom’s best friend, had been watching him. Aunt Maggie was fun.
But she didn’t believe that Chucky was talking to him. She didn’t believe him when he told her that Chucky wanted to watch the news. Then, when he told her it was Chucky who had turned on the TV . . .
She didn’t believe him.
Chucky said she was stupid. And then . . .
“Andy . . . are you okay, you . . . ?”
He turned back to Joanne and nodded, still holding the missile launcher. He had forgotten about it for a second.
“There’s more stuff in the closet,” Joanne said, putting his clothes into the dresser, smiling at him.
Andy got up and went to the closet. There were stacks of puzzles on the floor. Andy didn’t like puzzles. They were too hard. He could never see where the pieces fit together. There were lots of puzzles, and Andy decided that there must have been lots of kids who had stayed here. Lots.
I’m just one more.
But that’s okay, he thought. I don’t want to stay here. Mom will come and get me.
Then he looked up. There were more toys piled up on the high shelf. He saw a big red truck and other toys hidden behind it.
Andy reached up, stretching on his tiptoes. His fingers didn’t seem to reach, but then—with just a bit more stretching—he touched metal.
“We may have to get you some more clothes, Andy. I don’t think you have enough here for school and . . .”
One finger hooked the back of the truck and he tugged on it, pulling it down.
He fell back on his heels as the truck started falling down. It was tumbling right toward Andy. The truck was big and aiming right for his head.
He spun away.
And when he looked back, he saw something else, right beside the truck. It landed at his feet with a heavy thud.
It was a Good Guy doll.
He crawled away from it, pushing at the ground with his feet and hands. He made a sound. A cry. He wasn’t sure.
“Andy,” Joanne said. “Are you all right? Are you?”
The Good Guy doll was smiling at him. It looked just like Chucky. Just like him.
There was no difference.
And he thought, Maybe it is Chucky. Maybe it is Chucky, hiding in the closet, waiting to get me.
“Hey, gang, how are we doing here? Everything . . .”
Andy looked up at Phil, who had just stuck his head in the doorway. Then Andy looked quickly back at the doll, waiting for it to move, waiting for it to get up and start coming for him.
Got you now, Andy Barclay. Right here. In this nice house. Got you now! And these people are going to help me!
“Oh, Andy, I’m sorry. I forgot all about that. The last little boy we had played with it. We just stuck it up there.”
Joanne picked the doll up. Andy wanted to tell her, Don’t touch it. Put it down. He can hurt you, real bad.
Put it down!
She stood there, looking down at Andy while she held the doll in her hands.
Just a doll.
“I’ll get rid of it, Andy. I’m sorry I forgot about it. I’ll just . . .”
Andy stood up. Phil stepped into the room and Andy looked up at him quickly. He saw the look on Phil’s face. It was the same look he had worn before. A look that said he wasn’t too sure about this whole arrangement. It said, Maybe we don’t want Andy staying here.
All of a sudden, Andy didn’t care anymore about all the neat toys.
Phil took another step. “Are you okay?” he asked Andy.
Phil’s watching me, Andy thought. He’s watching me. Watching to see what I do . . . what I say.
Andy looked back at the doll. Chucky is gone, he told himself. Chucky is dead.
Andy reached out and touched the doll. He rubbed the doll’s arms, feeling the material of the striped T-shirt, and then the corduroy overalls.
I had overalls like that, Andy thought. Good Guy overalls.
“That’s okay,” he said quietly.
His hand went back to the arm and closed around it. He told himself, Chucky was burned to a crisp. Chucky was shot through the heart. It’s all over. And this is . . . this is . . .
“It’s only a doll,” he said, smiling, looking from Phil to Joanne. “Only a doll,” he repeated. “Right?”
Phil smiled. And Andy knew that something bad had moved away, like a cloud drifting past the sun. Phil smiled back and said, “Er, yeah, Andy. Right.”
Andy held the doll by the arm. But not too close. He saw that Phil was looking at Joanne.
They’ll go downstairs and talk about me again, Andy knew. Everyone wants to talk about me.
Nobody wants to believe me.
“Well, you have some fun and play, okay?” Joanne said. “And I’ll get some dinner started.”
“Okay,” Andy said, smiling up at Joanne.
She took Phil’s arm and walked out of the room. And Andy stood there. The doll in his hands. It was as if he were frozen, as if he couldn’t move. He heard them walking down the stairs, their steps muffled on the thick carpet. He waited until he couldn’t hear them anymore.
And then—very slowly—he brought the doll up and around. At arm’s length. Holding it right in front of him.
The doll smiled at him. It always smiled.
Except when it was Chucky.
“Just a doll . . . ,” he said quietly. “Just a—”
The doll blinked its eyes.
Andy moaned. He wanted to drop it, let it fall to the ground.
But he was frozen.
The doll’s head turned left and right, as if searching for him.
“Hi, I’m Tommy!” it squealed, the sound so loud, too loud. “And I’m your friend to the end. Hidey-ho, ha-ha-ha!”
Andy held the doll, shaking. It was laughing at him. And he knew it would say something else. Maybe, “Want to play?” or “I like to be hugged!”
And Andy didn’t want to hear anything else.
He ran over to the open toy chest and threw the doll in. He threw it hard. He wanted to hear the big plastic head smack against some toys. He watched the doll crash down. The eyes blinked.
Andy slammed down the lid.
The thunder rumbled from out of nowhere. Mattson heard the slow roar as he got his disorganized briefcase together and started for his car. He carried the doll by its left foot, dangling it behind him.
Shit, he thought. It’s going to rain. I hate driving my new BMW in the rain. There are too many stupid drivers who could rear-end me or sideswipe the car. The Beammer handled great in the rain, but he just worried about all the other peasants in their Escorts.
The thunder seemed louder the closer he got to the exit of the building. The parking lot was empty. He had hoped to get out early, but the fun time in the lab put the kabosh on that plan.
Now his BMW was the only car left in the executive parking lot.
Then—as he stood there—a jagged streak of lightning sailed over the Play Pals building. And—as if someone had turned on a tap just for his benefit—the rain started to come down.
“Damn it,” he muttered. He popped open his briefcase and took out a small umbrella. It was a Good Guy umbrella. But as soon as he popped it open it collapsed into total uselessness.
Some quality workmanship there, he thought.
He looked at the rain, coming down harder with each second. It was a god-damned downpour.
He pulled his trenchcoat collar up against the weather, and held his sleek Verdi calfskin attaché tight to his body—he didn’t want that ruined. He took a breath, and letting the doll drag behind him, he ran out to brave the storm.
Already there were oily puddles. He jumped over them, and he heard the doll’s head thwap against the asphalt. The red hair was getting splattered with the dirty water.
He kept running and tried to dig his keys out of his pocket while still holding onto Chucky. There was another streak of lightning, then a thunderous belch from the clouds. The eye of the storm had to be just overhead. The doll’s foot slipped through his arm as he wedged it there, and it fell into a puddle.
Face-down, right into the water.
“Shit,” Mattson said again. He got his keys and then scooped up the now-sopping doll. No matter, he thought. He was just taking it for insurance. It was no big deal. Not at all . . .
He got to the car and worked the key in the trunk. It popped open with an impressive whoosh. And two small trunk lights showed him that there wasn’t a lot of room back there.
The trunk was filled with Play Pals toys. Samples from trade shows, freebies that he passed on to his brother’s kids, and games that he wanted to check out. There was a box with about a half-dozen Good Guy Nintendo games, worth their weight in gold.
He tossed the doll onto the heap. Another flash of lightning made the doll’s face glow eerily atop the pile, as if it were sitting on a mound of dead bodies. Mattson slammed the trunk down.
But it bounced back open.
Damn, he thought. I’m getting wetter by the second. He put the attaché on the wet ground and slammed the lid down again.
This time he heard a crunch.
He smashed it down again.
But it still wouldn’t close . . .
It was pain.
No doubt about it.
He wanted to scream out, to jump up and rip the throat open of this asshole.
Pain.
But he forced himself to be still. As—there!—the hood came down again, and he watched it slam on his fingers.
I could move my hand, he thought. He wouldn’t see; he’s just an asshole.
But no. It was too big a risk, too big—Slam! It smashed down again across his fingers.
Oh, he thought, pain. Horrible, horrible pain.
The trunk lid bounced open again.
Despite the pain, he thought, this is better.
Yes, it was much better to have this . . . to have this terrible feeling rather than the nothingness.
I’ve been given a second chance.
A second chance.
Praise Damballa. Mighty Damballa who rules over life and death. All praise and honor—
I’ve been
given a second chance.
The man stopped banging the trunk.
A second chance.
To escape the doll.
And live again!
6
What the hell? Mattson thought.
He smashed the lid down again, jostling the doll’s body, trying to make some room, until—
He saw the problem.
The doll’s arm was flung to the side, and the doll’s fingers were extended out, blocking the lid. Mattson saw that one finger was completely smashed.
“Oh, hell,” he said. He snatched the doll off the pile and slammed the trunk down.
He held the doll by its broken hand. The hand felt wet and slimy. From the rain, Mattson guessed. That’s just how the plastic feels when it gets wet. Like lizard skin. Slimy, scaly—
He opened the rear door of the BMW. The backseat was filled with toys, too, some of them prototypes, others just samples that had somehow ended up in his new car.
I have to do something about this mess, he thought. He tossed the doll into the back. He hurried to open the front door and get in. Some thunder cracked right near his head. Got to get in the car, he thought. That’s where it’s safe in electrical storms. What a night . . .
The car started up with the speed of a precision piece of Deutschland craftsmanship. They may have lost the war, but they sure knew how to make an automobile.
Mattson pulled out of the deserted parking lot, the storm raging around him. He adjusted the speed of the BMW’s windshield wipers so that it kept pace with the sheets of water that cascaded in front of him.
“What a night . . .” he said out loud.
He adjusted the rearview mirror. He saw the doll, lying stupidly on top of the pile of toys, near the slinkies, the Good Guy water pistols, the Good Guy Science Lab, the Good Guy Play Dough.
He pulled out onto Wacker Street, turning left toward Wabash. He looked at his dash, a Christmas tree of idiot lights—speed, temperature, battery, fuel. Very pretty. He saw his phone. He wondered whether he could get a good connection in this weather. He reached out and picked it up.
Thinking of the night ahead. Enjoying the guilt, the deceit, the thrill—
He punched in his home number.
It rang, clearly, nice and loud. Mattson was impressed by the sound on the cellular phone. It rang once, twice, and then someone was there . . .
Child’s Play 2 Page 4
