Destroyer of Worlds

by Daniel G. Keohane

  Hank’s hand stopped, resting on the dog’s back. He laughed, the sound half human, half growl. He looked down suddenly, whispered, “Stay. Good girl.” The dog growled one more time. He resumed his petting.

  The dog growled?

  “Hank,” Martin said, his voice so loud and sudden Vanessa flinched from it. “I think the lady would appreciate you not doing the doggy noises. For now at least. I forgot to warn her about that.”

  Hank glared at him, any humor lost in that one slow turn of his head. It returned again when he focused on Vanessa. “Some fear dogs,” he said, his voice dry but with an underlying strength that matched his eyes, “fear Cerberus’s multiple heads rising over the horizon to devour the world.”

  He was quoting some poet Vanessa remembered reading—recently, in fact. Where?

  The air around her became very cold. Her skin responded, tensing. Then came an empty, hollow feeling in her gut. She remembered who’d written that line of verse. A woman who had been dead for almost two years. He’d just quoted from Samantha Union’s journal.

  VIII

  Corey

  Abby and Honey had each settled on a book after a half hour of whispers and giggles among the bookshelves. Abby chose a gentler Dr. Seuss, Green Eggs and Ham. They had no books by that particular author in the house. He’d always seemed too surreal for Samantha’s tastes. Honey clutched two Early Reader books, part of a series with magical woodland animals helping a kindly old veterinarian solve mysteries. Honey gave a quick, book-bending explanation to Fran, who stretched out her face with false excitement—so false Sam guessed not even her daughter would be fooled into believing the woman was interested.

  Samantha was filling out a library card application as the girls waited impatiently by the counter. Fran said, in a half whisper, “So, your property has quite a history, you know.”

  Sam’s hand twitched as she wrote her address—had Fran been following her progress along the form? Quite a history had enough of an ominous tone she did not respond. Instead she asked, “What’s our zip code again?”

  Fran told her. Sam wrote the number with fervor, hoping such an absorption in the task would dissuade—

  “Two people over the past hundred years have,” she leaned in, “died there.”

  Sam stopped writing, closed her eyes. Of course, nothing hopeful like Washington camping on his way to Lexington. Two people dead.

  Still trying to ignore the woman, not take her bait, Sam handed the form to a ghostly thin girl behind the counter who only held it in front of her and stared at Fran, nodding. She then turned to Sam and said in a similar conspiratorial tone, “It’th true.” The words carried a heavy lisp. Pierced tongue, probably, to match her nostril, eyebrow, lower lip and other, less visible places.

  Thrilled to have a larger audience, Fran said, “One was stung to death. A hiker, was it? Twenty, thirty years ago. Ran into a nest in the middle of the woods. The property’s been all woods forever as far as I know.” The ghost girl nodded. Fran added, “I guess he was allergic.”

  “The other one wuth way back, what, nineteen-fifteen, nineteen-thickteen. A boy, only thirteen yearth old, mauled by wolvth, or thomething like that.”

  Fran straightened, struggled to regain control of the conversation with a mad wriggling of her fingers. “Coyotes,” she said, “and I have a hard time believing your mother gave you permission to mutilate your body like that, Susan.” Susan, Sam thought. Two s’s. Thuthan, now.

  The girl rolled her eyes and looked to Sam as if to say, Can you believe thith bitch?

  “Well,” Sam said, not meeting the eyes of either, “at least it was a long time ago.” She gestured to the application still captive in the pierced Susan’s hands. “Are we all set with that? Abby wants to take a book out, but I still have my card from Worcester if that’ll work.” Susan looked down, scanned the sheet, nodded her head.

  “Lookth good, Mittheth Union. Let me jutht type it in…”

  She bent over the keyboard, stared down through a clear plastic section of the counter at an old CRT computer monitor. The plastic was so scuffed Sam wondered how she could see anything.

  In the meantime, a second librarian, the same older woman who’d read The Lorax, took up post behind the counter and began to check out Honey’s book. Abby looked worried, but Sam pointed to the girl and mouthed “one second” while raising a finger. Abby got the message and brightened.

  “Still,” Fran said, “best not let your daughter play in the yard alone. Do you have a dog?”

  Sam shook her head.

  “Well, if you’re cat people, best not let the poor creature wander outside. Outdoor cats don’t live long in Hillcrest. “

  “No cat, either.” She spoke quietly, not wanting Abby to pick up on the conversation. Of course, if she was going on a play-date, and Honey had a dog, they would hear about it.

  The younger librarian finished typing, scanned the barcode on a key-chain tab, handed it to Sam. “All thet, whenever you want to uthe it.”

  “Thanks.” Sam walked around to the front of the counter and handed the small card to her daughter. “Here you go, Sweetie. Hand it to the nice lady when it’s your turn and they’ll let you borrow the book.” Abby held the plastic tab between two fingers. When Honey moved aside, Abby handed it to the older woman.

  “And what have you got today, Sugar?”

  Abby handed her the book. Not Green Eggs and Ham after all, Sam realized. The book’s cover depicted a hand-drawn city street. A pig-tailed girl with a white dog in her arms stood before the open back door of a taxi. The door, adorned with a sunny bumble bee logo, was held open by a kindly old driver, hat held in his other hand. Celia Takes A Cab, the title read.

  The colors were varied and in Sam’s opinion too bright. Just right for getting a child’s attention. As the woman scanned the library card, Sam shifted the book to see the cover better. The driver’s smile looked like a snarl, his grip on the door too tight, ready to slam it closed behind the girl when she climbed in. The bright yellow door, laughing bumble bee, colors faded on the old cover. She didn’t like it. The book was suddenly whisked up by the librarian who scanned its bar code then handed it back to Abby.

  “I thought you were getting Dr. Seuss,” Sam said.

  “Honey said this one was really good. I’ve never been in a taxi cab before. Have I?”

  Have I? Have I?

  “No,” she said. She took the library card back with damp fingers. Trickles of sweat rolled down her sides. She wanted to go home, let Abby read her frightening new book while she lay in her own bed and wrote, put some order to her jumbled thoughts about this strange day. See it in words and poetry, organize, arrange. Make right again.

  Corey was home. Maybe he would read the book to Abby. Somehow, though, Samantha thought he might not want to, either.

  IX

  Vanessa

  Vanessa focused on her breathing, slowing her system down, careful not to break the stare of the old man sitting opposite her on the floor. A technique she’d mastered long ago, a way of collecting her wits after a disturbing statement from a patient. But this…

  “How do you know that particular line of poetry?”

  Hank Cowles smiled, resumed patting the invisible Nurse Charles. “How do you think, Doctor Reilly?”

  She shook her head. “I don’t know, Mister Cowles. Why don’t you tell me?” This man enjoyed playing games with people. The best reaction was to ratchet up the aggression. Just a little, see how he responded.

  “I enjoy writing poetry,” he said, “don’t you?”

  “Not particularly. Are you saying you wrote it?”

  His smiled widened. “Wrote what?”

  “Don’t screw with me, sir. Where did you read that line?” It occurred to her suddenly that maybe he’d gotten it from Samantha Union herself. She must have had the notebook with her, one of them at least. The thought sent gooseflesh up her arms.

  “Why do you care?”

  “Why do you
always answer a question with a question? Let’s say I have a professional interest in your answer.”

  “It’s not my place to help you with your job.”

  Vanessa decided to change the topic, maybe throw him off. “Why do you pretend to be patting your dog?”

  His hand hesitated, just a little. When he resumed, each motion perfectly matched the one before. He managed to squeeze out another growl, and Sam could see no movement in his throat to reveal he’d done it. He was good. “Steady, girl,” he said, “she meant nothing by it. What makes you think Charlie is not here?”

  Charlie… his use of the nickname bothered her. Corey had used it often as he spoke Hank’s lines, calling the dog Charlie. An obvious nickname, but Vanessa had checked, found no reference in any story that Cowles called the dog by this name; assumed it was simply Corey’s imagination at play.

  Hank’s eyes widened, his mouth opening in silent laughter. He leaned sideways, tilted his head, though always looking at her. His position gave the impression he was trying to see past her. Or through her. More gooseflesh. Stop it. Focus.

  Behind her, Martin’s voice was as much a growl as Hank’s impersonation, “Steady there, Hank. No sudden moves.”

  Hank glared but straightened and returned his smile to Vanessa. “I apologize, Doctor. You have a fascinating way of thinking. I enjoy being with psychiatrists, watching how they search for patterns in everything, uncover meaning in the most obscure statements.”

  Not knowing what else to say, she said, “Thank you.”

  “It’s been quite fun playing our little game.”

  “You consider this a game, Mister Cowles?”

  He pursed his lips, looked down at Nurse Charles, gave the imaginary dog a scratch behind her ears. “Today,” he said, before looking up, “no. More an intermission.”

  “An intermission.”

  He laughed. “Doing the echo trick. Fine. Yes, an intermission. But the game continues on its own. Let’s call it the calm before the final storm, or,” he pursed his lips, “the setup for the Big Finish. I thought I would give our mutual friend one last moment of happiness.” Hank leaned forward, just a little, so as not to draw Martin’s attention again. “It will make losing everything again so sweet. Are you sure you wish to leave your patient alone for so long? Not that I mind a little break from your meddling. Still,” he leaned back and shrugged, “your involvement has added quite a refreshing dimension to it all. You’ve been a formidable, if mostly ineffective, adversary. Let me see, how did Charlie put it to me last night?” He looked up at the ceiling, hand sliding down the dog’s back, rising up, sliding back, “Ah, yes. This one’s a hoot. A hoot! Can you believe she said a thing like that?” Big smile.

  Vanessa shifted, wanting to close her eyes and gather her wits. It wasn’t possible, not without admitting he was winning. He was searching her out, listening for clues as to what her goal was in visiting him, finding enough to twist around and mess with her head. It was working.

  She shook her head. “I don’t believe any of that.”

  Another growl. Vanessa surprised herself by laughing.

  “Charlie doesn’t appreciate your scorn, Vanessa.”

  He knew her name. Martin had introduced her only as Doctor Reilly. No first names, always a rule. Someone had slipped. He’d probably heard their conversation from the hall. No matter. The patient was controlling the moment. Time to leave.

  She held his gaze without speaking, longer than was necessary, trying to build some semblance of dominance, said, “Thank you for your time, Hank.” No formalities. He hadn’t earned it.

  Destroyer of Worlds.

  Stop it; just go.

  She uncurled her legs and got up stiffly. Hank watched her, still smiling. “Good, good,” he said. “I look forward to tomorrow. Personally, I think what you’re doing is a bit risky, but I admit it’s a rather unique method of treatment. Everything you’re doing, I mean. ” His broken smile had become a leer.

  How could he—no! He does not know! He’s fishing, nothing more.

  Or he did know everything and was worried it might work? The fact that she thought this proved the old monster had won, pushed her mind too close to his.

  “Good day,” she said, nodded to Martin who opened the door, keeping his eye on the old man all the while.

  Hank’s right hand dropped to the floor, as if tired of the pantomime now that his audience was leaving. “Good day, Doctor,” he said. “We’re a lot alike, you and I.”

  Vanessa stepped through the door, felt something brush past her ankle. Nothing there. She did not turn, even as Hank added, “We’re both trying to destroy his world, but for different reasons, I sup-”

  Martin closed the door.

  In the hall, Vanessa took a half step sideways and leaned against the wall, trying very hard to breathe, focused on her heart rate and willed it to slow down, slow… down. Soames waited beside her. Obviously, she was not the first to need decompression after a conversation with that man.

  X

  Corey

  Corey had fallen back into a dreamless sleep. He awoke to daylight and someone’s lips touching his own, wet, pressing. Hands across his bare chest, pulling on the waistband of his boxers. He opened his eyes, slowly, aroused yet dreading who he would see. Samantha’s face drifted over his, then was lost when she sank against his neck, kissing, both her hands slowly, but insistently, touching every part of him. He arched his back to kick the shorts loose under the sheets, whispered, “What about Abby?”

  Sam came up for air long enough to whisper, “Nap. I locked our door just in case.” The warmth of her voice mixed with a cool breeze washing through the window. He let himself be lost in her touch, her urgency for him. She added, “I missed you,” before dropping back down to kiss his shoulder, bicep.

  Corey’s eyes rolled in sensory overload, a stretching physical need, reaching out for her. They never separated for more than a breath, pressed into each other, rolled across the bed, climaxed together. Finally, exhausted, they settled together on top of the bed.

  She lay on his chest, as spent as he was, and ran a couple of languid fingers over his sparse chest hair as if afraid of losing the moment if she did not constantly touch. Every connection sent a small jolt through him, thrilling and relaxing, paradoxical moments only possible after love-making. The air cooled as the pressure outside dropped. The sun was still out but the coming storm was unmistakable, pressing the curtains into the room one moment, sucking them against the screen the next. He loved these moments, the charged air, distant rumble of a storm which had not yet made itself known.

  A small thump on the bedroom door. “Mommy?”

  Sam stretched across his body, said loud enough for Abby to hear, “I’ll be right there, Sweetie.”

  “Were you taking a nap with Daddy?”

  Corey laughed. Sam bit him on the arm. “Ouch!”

  She giggled, took the sheet and flipped it over his body, pulled on a robe for herself. When the door was open Abby did not enter. “I’m hungry. Is it suppertime?”

  She bent down and kissed the girl on the forehead. “In a minute, Cutie. Let me get dressed.”

  Abby turned toward Corey after Sam disappeared into the bathroom. “You feel better, Daddy?”

  He stretched, holding the end of the sheet so it didn’t slide off him. “Much better, Sweetie. Why don’t you head into the kitchen and I’ll be right out to get you something to eat.”

  “It’s macaroni and cheese day.”

  “Of course it is. With ketchup?”

  She nodded. “With ketchup!”

  He listened to her soft footfalls down the hall, stayed on the bed a while longer, enjoying the lingering feel of Sam on his body, the sound of his wife puttering around in the bathroom. Another cool breeze danced through the window. Perfection. He didn’t want it to end.

  XI

  Vanessa

  John Soames’ office was a chaotic jumble of papers, books and manila folders. One booksh
elf-lined wall was crammed with medical texts and periodicals stuffed into every available space. A couple of trophies, as well, racquetball or tennis, hard to tell from what she could see of them amid the clutter. Soames carefully pushed aside a stack of folders, then lifted one in particular. He opened it, scanned a few pages, closed it and handed it across the desk to Vanessa.

  She flipped it open, inwardly cringing at Hank Cowles’ face staring at her from the first page. An expressionless photo, not much better than a mug shot. She decided his time in this place had not yet erased whatever humanity remained, but sharpened it if the mentally dangerous man she’d just spoken with was any indication.

  The other sheets offered nothing of interest, a few attempts at medication, notes in Soames’ own barely discernable handwriting of failed group therapy attempts. The final note struck her as appropriate.

  After review with attending physicians in units 16 and 17, Board agrees no further attempts at insinuating subject into patient community will be attempted. Patient’s odd statements, constant mental games, especially but not exclusive to pretext that dog is real, have been cause of excessive anxiety in population. Not worth pursing at this time. Confinement, with two (2) one (1)-hour walks outside until such time as a complaint is lodged by patient or his attorney.

  Vanessa closed the folder, handed it back to Soames who said, “I apologize, not letting you make copies. HIPAA policy.”

  “Don’t apologize.”

  He tapped the folder against the desk top. “I assume you were reading the isolation decision?” Soames looked at something on the floor behind her, a brief flit of his eyes before focusing on her again.

  Vanessa nodded.

  He continued, “I don’t suppose it was much of a surprise considering how you looked coming out of his cell just now.” Another flit of his eyes past her chair. She resisted the urge to look. During their walk to the administrative wing, what had been an initial suspicion had blossomed into anger that she hadn’t considered the possibility immediately. Cowles had spoken as if he knew everything that was going on back in Hillcrest, more than even her own chief of staff, Jim Chen probably knew. She forced herself to relax, tempered her anger to a more reasonable assertiveness which needed a rational voice. A voice crying in the wilderness of her heart, Samantha Union might have said.