Second Chance

by Chet Williamson

  Woody doubted that a lot of noise would do much to discourage Keith Aarons if Woody was next on his list.

  What the hell had he done to Judy and Sharla and Alan? A drug of some kind? Hypnosis? Brainwashing? It was possible, wasn't it? They had done that kind of stuff back in the fifties, for God's sake. What, in Korea? Or had that been just a movie he had seen, about a POW programmed to kill a political candidate? Wasn't Frank Sinatra in it? He wasn't sure.

  But this was the nineties, and even if that kind of thing was only science fiction back then, odds were it was reality now.

  Woody held the gun in his left hand, and went through the house once more checking the doors. They were all locked, as were the windows. He went down to his studio, turned on a dim lamp, closed the soundproof door, and sat in the dead silence.

  Orpheus, Tracy had called him, first in delight, and later with a sense of horror. Leading demons from hell. But he didn't feel like Orpheus. Now he felt like nothing less than Doctor Frankenstein himself, having created a monster out of selfishness and pride.

  He sighed, looked at the gun in his hand, and thought, for the first time in many years, about suicide, about lifting up the gun and putting a bullet into his brain, ending all the doubt and the fear.

  No. That was stupid. Even if the little .22 bullets could have penetrated the bone or the soft palate of his mouth, he could do no such thing to his children or to Tracy. Along with ending fear, death also ended joy and love and hope.

  Hope was always there, Woody thought. He had based his life on hope, on the hope of some day being with Tracy again, and what he had hoped for so many years had come true. He would continue to hope. No matter what else happened, he would not let hope die.

  After a few minutes, the dead, flat silence made him uncomfortable, and he put Joe Henderson's Lush Life on the CD player. He listened to two tracks, but was unable to get into the music as he usually did, so he turned it off, opened the door, and walked up the stairs.

  At the top something took him, held him, buried him.

  ~*~

  Coming to the light was like coming out of a grave. He could almost feel dirt running off his nose, crawling over his cheeks, as he was finally able to breathe again, breathe the sharp tang of ocean air.

  He was sitting on the white sofa in the living room, looking out onto the sea through the open glass doors. He wondered what was wrong. He had closed those doors. Closed and locked them. Why would he open them again?

  He became aware of something in his right hand, and he thought that it might be the gun he had been carrying. But when he looked, he found it was a knife instead, a long, thick, sharp knife that Tracy used to carve meat in the kitchen. But why did he have it?

  Then he looked up again at the moon shining on the sea, and he knew. The voice told him.

  You see the knife. You see the moon.

  "Yes," he whispered.

  Go to the bedroom now. To the woman.

  "Tracy."

  To the woman. She does not belong here. She never should have lived. It was a mistake. The only way to correct it is to make it so that she does not live. Neither her nor the other two. Go now and kill them, all three. It is the only way to make things right again.

  "The only way," Woody repeated. Then to his horror he stood, turned from the twin moons in sky and sea, and walked across the room, down the hall, up the stairs, into the bedroom where Tracy

  the woman

  slept peacefully, safe only in her dreams.

  Woody did not pause, but walked directly to the bed, where the moonlight fell upon Tracy's olive face and dark hair. Her lips were parted, and he heard the soft breaths, the signs of

  kill them, all three

  life within her sweet body, and he wanted to kiss her, but

  It is the only way to make things right again

  instead the knife came up and up and up and he knew that he was going to drive the blade down into her until she was dead, and then he would go to the children's rooms and do the same thing there, and the knife was going higher and his eyes widened and he screamed nooooo deep within himself, but the scream was too soft, far softer than the other voice that he had to obey, that told him

  kill them, all three

  but he would not, he would not, oh Jesus not for all the world—And the knife came down.

  And buried itself in the meat of his own thigh.

  His shriek drove away the voice, and the pain drove away sight and sound and everything, and he sank into a deep red dream, and in the dream he saw Keith, Keith as he was now, his face lit by moonlight, and heard Keith's voice as it had spoken to him only minutes before, words that had not belonged to The Voice—

  I liked you best, Woody. But I have to do this, and you know why. You know everything. It's because of that that I have to do this. I know you brought me back. I owe my existence to you. The world owes Pan to you. But you have to be silenced. I can't let you jeopardize this. And if I do you and yours, and feel nothing . . . well then. I'll be ready. I can do the world.

  Then Keith's voice stopped, joined the other Voice, the great Voice that had demanded the obedience that Woody had refused, joined it in the silence, and the red dream grew black.

  Chapter 33

  The night of September 18th, Keith Aarons returned to Bone, Texas. No one saw him come into town, and no one saw him leave again. He had rented a car in Houston, and first drove past Red's Tavern. Bob Hastings's car was in the parking lot, but Sally's little Datsun was not. That was good. He had known this would be her night off. If she had been at Red's after all, it would have made things difficult. Not impossible, but difficult.

  He drove to Sally's trailer then, and parked the car three blocks away. The trailer wasn't part of a court, but sat by itself on a little lot with a few pine trees in the corners. None of the neighbors were outside, and he was able to walk to the door unseen. He rapped on it gently, and called out, "Honey? It's Pete."

  The door opened in a few seconds. "Well, look at you," she said, beaming. "The frontiersman back from his trek." She looked over his shoulder. "Where's your car?"

  "Long story. Joey in bed?"

  "Not here. He's sleeping over Bobby's house." She touched his cheek. "We can be loud as we want, Dan'l Boone.”

  “Sounds good to me. Let's hit the sack."

  As he followed her down the short hall into the bedroom, Keith reached in his pocket and took out the chloroform and a handkerchief. When he saw the curtains were drawn, he opened the jar, saturated the cloth, and closed the jar tightly.

  "What's that smell?" Sally said, starting to turn around. But before she finished he had the cloth over her face, holding her firmly so that she wouldn't struggle. He wanted her to go out as easily as possible, to feel no pain when the time for pain came.

  He lowered her gently to the bed, unzipped her robe, and removed it and the panties she was wearing. Then he left the trailer and drove back to Red's.

  He didn't have long to wait. Bob Hastings came out the back door with two other men from the lab, said goodnight, and headed toward his car. "Hey . . . Bob!" Keith said.

  Hastings, startled, jerked around and saw Keith standing in the shadows. "Pete? What the hell you doin' back so soon? And what you hidin' for?"

  "Aw," Keith said, coming up to Bob, "I had enough of that outdoor shit. Skeeters were fierce. And frankly, I was gettin' a little horny."

  Hastings giggled. "Nothin' to fuck but mule deer out there, huh?"

  "That's about it. Anyway, I got a real strange favor to ask you . . .” Keith tried to sound a little embarrassed, a little excited. ". . . but it's one I don't think you'll mind doin'. Let's get in your car, huh? I don't want anybody to see me here."

  "Why not?" Hastings asked as he climbed into his Camaro.

  "This has gotta be secret," Keith said as he got in the passenger side. "Sally's been gettin' a little, well, kinky, you know what I mean? And I need to find . . . a third party."

  Hastings's face was vacant
at first, then he started to grin. "Holy shit. You talkin' about a threesome?"

  "Not exactly. We were screwin', okay, and Sally told me—I mean, damn, but she's insatiable—that she has this fantasy about wakin' up to find somebody she never screwed before on top of her, humpin' away. Not rapin' her or nothin', but just makin' sweet, deep love."

  “Jesus . . ."

  "And I said, in so many words, that it could be done. A little ether—just enough to put her out for a while—and she'd probably wake up partway through it. Well, you'da thought I dumped a load of spanish fly in her chili, she got so hot. 'Let's do it,' she says, and tells me just to make sure I got somebody clean, you know. And hell, you're my buddy, and you're clean, aren't you?"

  "Hell yes."

  "And you been wantin' to screw her, haven't you?”

  “Hell yes, too."

  "You up for it?"

  "Man, it's pretty kinky, like you said. Like a . . . dead woman or somethin'."

  "Yeah, at first. But she'll come out of it partway through, and I gar-on-tee she'll drain you, boy. Then, maybe a threesome after all, huh?"

  “Jesus Christ, I never done nothin' like this before."

  "First time for everything. But no talkin' about it afterward. Gotta be a secret."

  "Hey, mum's the word. You sure you ain't gonna mind? Won't hold it against me?"

  "Tell the truth, I can get jollies outta watchin' too. Meet you over there, all right? You get there first, go on in. She's out of it, stark naked, and ready."

  Hastings nodded. From the sweat on his upper lip, Keith thought he was ready to pop then and there. He got out of the car, and Hastings's Camaro took off with a shower of stones. Keith's face went grim, and he walked the block to his rental car.

  When he arrived at the trailer, Hastings was already inside, but had not yet gone into the bedroom. They went in together, and Hastings took a deep breath and blew it out when he saw Sally lying there naked, her legs parted slightly.

  "She really out?" Hastings said.

  "Won't feel a thing till you give her that swing."

  Hastings laughed tightly, and Keith realized that he was embarrassed.

  "Look, Bob, you, uh, want me to leave while you get started? I mean, hell, I don't have to be here at all if that'd make you more comfortable. Let you sorta break the ice on your own, so to speak?"

  Hastings nodded. "You're a helluva friend, Pete." He looked down again at Sally. "This is sure weird . . ."

  "Hey, look, she's breathin', ain't she?" And she was. Her breasts were rising and falling peacefully. "So make her breathe faster. Be the handsome prince and wake up Sleeping Beauty." He punched Hastings playfully on the shoulder. "I'll be out here, you need me." And he closed the door on Sally and Hastings.

  He walked down the hall so Hastings could hear his footsteps, then waited, felt the subtle shifts in the raised floor of the trailer, the motions as Hastings undressed, then a larger shudder that must have been from his climbing onto the bed, onto Sally. There was a moment of stillness, then a pulse began, and the sound of springs lightly squeaking.

  Keith stood up. He saturated the cloth with chloroform once more, and walked down the hall, listened outside the bedroom door to the noises Hastings made. When the man gave a shuddering moan, Keith opened the door, went in quickly, slapped the cloth over Hastings's mouth and nose, and in a few moments there were two unconscious people on the bed.

  Then Keith took the four empty vials that had been filled with ZF723, and pressed Hastings's fingers onto the smooth glass. He took the needle with which he had injected Woody Robinson, jabbed it into Sally's upper right arm, pressed Hastings's fingers on it, then dropped it and the vials on the carpet by the side of the bed. He did the same with the chloroform bottle.

  Hastings was dead weight, but Keith managed to pull him off Sally and put him in a chair near the bed. Then he took a rolled note from his jacket pocket, straightened it, dropped it on the floor next to Hastings, along with the pen with which he had forged Hastings's handwriting. Now it was time to do what he most dreaded.

  ~*~

  September 18, 1993:

  I went into the kitchen, emptied a beer bottle, took it into the bedroom, and did what I had to do. I nearly cried. I have never killed anyone with greater regret. She loved me in her way, and I had to watch her die, make sure that she would not survive. I don't think she felt any pain. She never moved.

  She was dead by the time Hastings started to stir. I slipped on gloves, opened the window, fit his fingers around the pistol grip, lifted it to his head, and pressed against his finger to pull the trigger, letting go immediately so that the gun fell to the floor by his side. In another second I went through the window, pulled it closed from outside, and dashed across the back yard into the pines. I made my way through their sheltering darkness back to the car, and drove back to Houston. My theft of the vials is covered now, but at a terrible price.

  Sometimes things just don't work out very well. If only the inventory had been put off another month, things would have been easier. I'm afraid that this is going to make it that much more difficult to achieve my main purpose.

  But there is one way. It is desperate, but what has my life been filled with if not desperate acts?

  Desperate acts, and self-sacrifice?

  ~*~

  Two days later, Keith Aarons drove back into Bone, Texas, in his own car. It was six in the evening, and he went to Red's Tavern. When he entered, the soft cushion of talk from the regulars stopped immediately, and all faces turned to him. Beer glasses paused half way to open mouths, chili spoons hovered in the air, dripping red sauce into bowls.

  Keith gave a lopsided grin. "What the hell, is my fly open or what?"

  A few people chuckled, some smiled, most remained solemn. Keith glanced to his left into the kitchen, as if looking for Sally, but instead he saw Red's wife, Mae, her eyes dripping mascara as she looked at him.

  "Mae?" he said. "What's the matter?" He looked down the room. "Where's Sally?"

  Al Freeman got up from a table near the back, put a hand on Keith's shoulder. "Come on out on the back porch a minute, Pete."

  "Al, what's this about?" he said. "And where's Sally?”

  “Come on," Freeman said again, and Keith followed him through the door, glancing back at the sad faces.

  Freeman sat on the porch steps, patted the boards, and Keith sat next to him. "Something terrible happened, Pete," said Freeman. "To Sally. Bob Hastings . . ." His voice started to get hard, and he cleared his throat. "Hastings took one of the drugs from the lab. Stole four vials—"

  "Sally," Keith said, grabbing Freeman's wrist. "Is she . . ."

  The man nodded. "Yes. She's dead. He killed her. Gave her a suggestibility drug, she . . . her abdomen was punctured, she bled to death."

  Keith shook his head, pretending to try and understand. "What . . . he stabbed her?"

  "From . . . Internally," Freeman said, unable to look at him.

  "A bottle. You understand?"

  "Oh my God," Keith whispered. "Oh God."

  "He's dead too. Shot himself. Left a note asking for forgiveness for what he did to her. And the way he betrayed us, stealing." Freeman shook his head. "'The son of a bitch wanted her, Pete. He used the drug on her like an aphrodisiac, overdosed her like crazy, I'm surprised that didn't kill her. Must've told her that she wanted . . . you know, and it worked too damn well. So he tried to . . . to keep satisfying her."

  "What . . ." Keith said slowly. "How's Joey?"

  "He was sleeping over at a friend's house. Sally's sister from Nacogdoches came and got him. He'll live with them. The, uh, the funeral's next Tuesday. You don't have to come in on the next shift if you don't want to. We'll understand."

  "No. No, I'll come in. Maybe I could get the day of the funeral off."

  "That's no problem now. We're changing things. Dr. Goncourt thinks maybe these two week shifts aren't such a good idea. Might cause a kind of cabin fever or something. Might even be why Bob
. . . did what he did. We're on three day shifts now, not two weeks. Yours will start tomorrow, if that's okay."

  "Sure. That's fine."

  "Changing security too. Going to put in metal detectors next week, and we'll be doing actual patdowns as the men leave the lab. It's just too easy to hide a vial, and after what happened, we can't take any chances." He hawked and spat into an ironed, white handkerchief, which he replaced in his hip pocket. "I mean, my gosh, consider what might happen if somebody would get it into their head to take out the virus."

  "You're right," said Keith, the knowledge of what he would have to do now clear as breath. "That would be . . . disastrous. Better safe than sorry. I won't mind, and I don't think the others will either, after what . . . what Bob did." His voice choked, and he began to cry. There were no audible sounds, but tears streamed down his cheeks. Freeman saw them, Keith was sure of it.

  Chapter 34

  The next morning, when Keith went back to the lab, Tracy Robinson was at Woody's bedside when he opened his eyes for the first time since the night she had found him screaming by the side of their bed, a kitchen knife piercing his leg.

  She was reading a magazine, and he tried to speak, but his mouth was too dry. His leg ached terribly. He licked the inside of his mouth, then his lips, looked around and saw that he was in a hospital room. IV bottles hung at his side, and he felt a pressure in his penis. He dared not move, but he was able to say, "Hey," loud enough for Tracy to hear and look up, startled.

  "Hey," he said again.

  "Oh God," she said, somewhere between shock and delight. "Oh God, you're back with me . . .” She moved toward him as if to hug him, then stopped, and gave him a small kiss on the cheek. Then, as if thinking of something momentous, she pressed the call button by the bed.

  "My leg hurts," he said. "And my dick," he added quietly.

  "That's a catheter. I knew you weren't going to like it."

  "But you let them do it." He smiled. "I can't see. Is my leg still there?"

  Tracy nodded and took his hand, squeezed it hard. "It'll be fine. You went into shock, and by the time the ambulance got there you were in a coma."