The Face of Death (21 page)

She kept herself from believing what he was saying, and concentrated on waiting for the moment that it would all be over, and Mommy and Daddy and Doreen would be okay.

Linda Langstrom listened to The Stranger talking to her daughter. Rage and despair roared up inside her. Who was this man? He’d walked into their home in the middle of the night, without fear or hesitation. He’d entered their bedroom with a gun, had woken them with a whisper. “Scream and you will die. Do anything other than what I tell you and you will die.”

His control had been absolute from the start. He was both the irresistible force and the immovable object, and now he’d backed them into a corner, with only one way out. She had to kill Sam, or the man would torture Sarah. What choice was left with such inexorable options? The Stranger was manipulating them, she knew this. He might still hurt Sarah. Kill her, even.

But…he might not. And that possibility, well…what choice was left?

Her rage was impotent, she was aware of that. Her despair was suffocating. Sam would die. She’d die. Sarah
might
live. But who’d raise her? Who’d love her?

Who would watch her baby from the clouds?

“I’m going to take off both of your gags. Sam, you will be allowed two final sentences—one to your wife, one to your daughter. Linda, you are allowed a single sentence to Sam. Exceed these parameters, and Sarah burns. Do you understand?”

They both nodded.

“Very good.”

He removed Linda’s gag first, then Sam’s.

“I’ll give you a minute. A sentence isn’t much, when it’s your last chance to speak. Please don’t be frivolous.”

Sam looked at his daughter and his wife. He glanced down at Doreen, who wagged her tail at him, stupid, lovable dog.

He wondered at his lack of fear. On one hand, everything was bright and sharp-edged, on the other it was all a floating surreality. Shock? Maybe.

He made himself focus. What were his last words going to be? What should he say to Linda, who was about to be forced to kill him? What did he want his daughter to remember about this moment?

All kinds of things flew into his head, sentences with fifty words, apologies, good-byes. In the end, he let the words come from him without inspection, and hoped they were right.

He looked at his wife. “You are a work of art,” he told her.

He looked at his daughter. “Olive juice,” he said, smiling.

Sarah stared at him for a moment, surprised, and then she smiled the smile that had stolen his heart from the beginning. “Olive juice, Daddy,” she said.

Linda looked at her husband and fought to keep herself from choking with grief. What was she going to say to this man? To her Sam, who’d saved her in so many ways? He’d saved her from her own self-doubt, had saved her from living a life without loving him. A sentence? She could speak for a year without stopping and it still wouldn’t be enough.

“I love you, Sam.” She blurted out the words, and at first she wanted to scream, to take them back, they weren’t enough, that couldn’t be the last thing she ever said to her husband.

But then she saw his eyes and that smile, and she understood that while it wasn’t the perfect sentence, it was the only one. She’d married her first love, the love of her youth. She’d loved him through laughter and anger, with kisses and yells. Love is where it started, love is where it was going to end.

She expected The Stranger to say something, to make fun of these last words, but he didn’t. He stood and waited, silent. He seemed almost respectful.

“Thank you for complying,” he said. “I really don’t want to have to burn Sarah.” A pause. “Now we’re going to begin the strangling. It’s not as easy as you might think, so please listen to what I tell you.”

Linda and Sam listened to the man, but kept their eyes on each other. They talked without words. The Stranger droned on, giving Linda matter-of-fact advice on how to kill her husband.

“I don’t need it to be painful, or to last for a specified time. If he goes quickly, that’s fine. It just needs to happen. The areas you’ll want to concentrate on are here and here.” He touched areas high on each side of Sam’s neck, near the jawline. “The carotid arteries. Cutting off the blood flow in those places will knock him unconscious before the lack of air kills him. Concurrent with that, you’ll need to exert pressure forward with both hands in order to cut off the airflow through his windpipe.” The Stranger demonstrated without actually touching Sam’s neck. “Then you hold on till he stops breathing. Simple. I will re-cuff him from behind so he can’t reach up to try and tear your hands away.” The Stranger shrugged. “It happens, even with suicides. One man had pulled a plastic bag over his head, had taped it closed around his neck, and then had handcuffed his own hands behind him. I suppose he changed his mind once it started getting difficult to breathe. He almost tore his thumbs off trying to rip his hands from the cuffs. We don’t want any of that here.”

Sam was sure The Stranger was right. He could feel his own fear, far off but persistent. Knocking at his door.

Little pig, little pig, let me in…

No. He didn’t want to die, that was true. But he was going to. This leads to this leads to that, and the sum is always the same. Save Sarah. You can’t always get what you want. Life’s a bitch—

—and then you die.

Sam sighed. He took one more look around. First at the room, the kitchen, the shadowy front area beyond that. His home, where he’d loved his wife and raised his child, where’d he’d fought the good fight. Then at Sarah, the living, breathing result of the love between him and Linda. Finally, he looked into his wife’s eyes. A deep, lingering look, and he tried to tell her many things and everything, and he hoped she understood all of it, or some of it, and then he closed his eyes.

Oh, Sam, no…Linda understood what he was doing, what he’d just done. He’d said good-bye. He’d closed his eyes, and she knew he didn’t plan to open them again. Logic was a big part of who Sam was. It was one of the things she loved about him, it was one of the things about him that drove her crazy. He had this ability, to see things three moves ahead, to arrive at an understanding while she was still puzzling over it.

Sam had probably known they were going to die long before The Stranger ever told them so. He’d examined the situation, had weighed the possibilities of the man’s motivations, and had realized the inevitable. Everything since had been him waiting. And feeling.

“You go
fuck
yourself!”

The words came out of her mouth before she could stop them, driven by emotion, not logic. The Stranger paused, looked at her, cocked his head.

“I’m sorry, what did you say?”

“I told you to go fuck yourself,” she snarled. “I’m not doing it.”

She looked over at Sam. Why hadn’t he opened his eyes?

The Stranger leaned toward her. He gazed at her for a long moment, and she was reminded of a statue. Stone, unfeeling, resolute.

“You’re mistaken,” he said.

He put the tape back over her mouth, and then Sam’s. He didn’t seem angry as he did it. Without speaking, he walked over to Sarah, gagged her, grabbed her handcuffed wrists, and yanked her hands forward. He stuffed his gun in his pants, and reached into his back pocket, pulling out the flashy gold-plated lighter. Linda’s heart froze when she heard the “snick” of it opening. His thumb pumped once on the wheel, and there was fire.

He made sure that Linda was watching as he held Sarah’s palm over the flame for three full seconds.

Sarah screamed the whole time; The Stranger did what he had said was the only duty of the strong: He kept on breathing, calm and sure.

21

SARAH COULDN’T BELIEVE HOW MUCH IT HURT. SHE’D BEEN
forced to stop crying so that she could breathe through her nose.

All the far-away things were now close. Her emotions were a blinding sheet of white lightning inside her, terror, grief, horror. The monster was inescapable. She knew that now. This knowledge was destroying her.

Her mother had raged as Sarah had been burnt. Linda had yanked so hard against her handcuffs that she would have torn the flesh on her wrists to the bone, if the insides of the cuffs had not been padded. Mommy was still Mommy, but she crackled with a threatening energy Sarah had never seen.

Even The Stranger was impressed.

“Magnificent,” he’d said. “You are one of the scariest things I’ve ever seen.”

Sarah had agreed.

“The problem, Linda, is that I’m scarier.” He’d shaken his head. “Don’t you understand? You can’t win. You won’t beat me. I am strength. I am certainty. Your choices are unaltered: Do what I say, or watch as I burn Sarah into a semblance of a circus freak.”

Her mother had quieted down then. Sarah had tried to look at her daddy, but his eyes were closed.

“I’m going to give you a few moments to collect yourself. A full minute. After that, you’ll either tell me that you’re ready, and we will move forward, or I will put the torch to Sarah in
earnest
.”

Sarah quivered in fear at the thought of more fire, more pain. And what did he mean by “moving forward”? She’d been in her far-away place, waiting for the monsters to go away. He’d talked during that time, said something important. She strained to remember.

Something about Mommy and Daddy…

Mommy killing Daddy…

She remembered, and her eyes opened wide, and the far-away place beckoned once more.

Linda struggled to get herself under control. She was full of white noise and static, one big short-circuit of the soul. Rage had taken over. She hadn’t been able to hold it back. She’d seen red and the anger and futility had marched in, banishing what little equilibrium she’d had left. Her wrists ached, and she felt over-oxygenated and sick to her stomach from the adrenaline rush.

Sam, damn Sam, still had his eyes closed. She knew why, and she hated him for it. Hated him for being right. For knowing it was over, knowing there weren’t any other choices, and for accepting that.

No, no, she loved Sam, she didn’t hate him. This was him, who he was. His mind was one of the things she loved most about him. His clarity, his brilliance. He was being so courageous right now. He’d said good-bye, closed his eyes, and left his neck exposed, ready for her strangling hands.

WWSD?

The saying had jumped into her mind: What Would Sam Do?

It was a mantra that she used when her emotions battled with her common sense. Sam was calm, Sam was logical, Sam was steady-as-she-goes. Capable of rage when it mattered, but able to let the small things go with a shrug.

When someone cut her off on the freeway and she started swearing out loud at them in front of Sarah, she’d take a breath and ask: WWSD? What Would Sam Do?

It didn’t always work, but it had woven itself into the fabric of her, and it appeared now at the time when she most needed it.

Sam would weigh the facts. Linda took a deep breath, closed her eyes.

Fact: We can’t escape. He’s handcuffed us, the cuffs aren’t budging. We’re trapped.

Fact: He can’t be bargained with.

Fact: He’s going to kill us.

These last two facts
were
facts. The Stranger’s calm resoluteness, the workmanlike way in which he did everything, including burning Sarah’s hand, left no doubt about what he was and what he would do. He’d do what he said.

But will he spare Sarah if we do what he asks?

Fact: We can’t know for sure that he will.

Fact: We can’t know for sure that he won’t.

It all led to what had caused Sam to close his eyes: this leads to this leads to that, and the sum is always the same.

Fact: The possibility that he will spare her is all that’s left. The only thing we might still be able to control.

She opened her eyes. The Stranger was watching her.

“Have you made your decision?” he asked.

She blinked once for yes. He removed the tape over her mouth.

“I’ll do it,” she said.

That hint of excitement again, a ghost that appeared and disappeared in his eyes.

“Excellent,” he said. “I’m going to re-cuff Sam’s hands behind his back first.”

He did this in quick, practiced motions. Sam kept his eyes closed and didn’t resist.

“Now, Linda, I’m going to remove the handcuffs from your wrists. You could decide to have another one of your ‘moments.’” He shook his head. “Don’t. It won’t get you anywhere, and I’ll burn Sarah’s left hand until it’s a melted lump. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” she replied, her voice full of hate.

“Good.”

He removed the cuffs. She did consider attacking him, just for a moment. She fantasized about shooting her hands out, grabbing his neck, and squeezing with all the rage and sorrow in her heart, squeezing until his eyes exploded.

But this, she knew, was pure fantasy. He was an experienced predator, alert to the tricks of his prey.

Her wrists throbbed. It was a dull, deep pain. She welcomed the sensation. It reminded her of Sarah’s birth. Beautiful, terrible agony.

“Do it,” The Stranger commanded, his voice flat and taut.

Linda looked at Sam, Sam with his eyes still closed, her beautiful man, her beautiful boy. He was strong in ways that she was weak, he had tenderness, he could be callous and arrogant, he had been responsible for her longest laughs and her strongest grief. He’d looked past her outer beauty to gaze upon the uglier parts of her, and had loved her still. He had never touched her in anger. They’d shared moments of sex as love and tenderness, and they’d fucked outdoors in a rainstorm, shivering as the cold water pelted their naked skin and she screamed above the wind.

Linda realized that she could continue this list forever.

She reached out with her hands. They trembled. When they touched his neck, she choked.

Sense-memory.

The feel of Sam, igniting remembrance of another ten thousand moments. A million tiny paper cuts on her soul, she bled from them all.

He opened his eyes and a million cuts became a single, searing pain.

Of all his physical features, Linda loved Sam’s eyes the most. They were gray, intense, surrounded by long eyelashes that any woman would envy. They were capable of such deep expression, of such emotion.

She remembered him looking at her with those eyes over a table on a wedding anniversary. He’d smiled at her.

“Do you know one of the things I love most about you?” he’d asked.

“What?”

“Your beautiful lunacy. The way you can arrange the chaos of a sculpture or a painting, but couldn’t arrange an underwear drawer to save your life. The way you fumble through loving me and Sarah with your whole self. The way you never forget a shade of blue, but can never remember to pay the phone bill. You bring a wildness to my life that I’d be lost without.”

Sam was loving her now, she could tell. Those eyes, those intense gray eyes, radiated emotion. Love, sadness, anger, pain, and joy. She fell into them, and she hoped he understood everything that she was feeling right now, every bit of it.

He winked once, and it made her laugh—a strangled laugh, but a laugh nonetheless—and then he closed his eyes again, and she knew he was ready, that she’d never be ready, but that the time was now.

She started to squeeze.

“If you don’t grip harder, he’ll spend a long time dying,” The Stranger said.

Linda squeezed harder. She could feel Sam’s heartbeat beneath her fingers, could feel the
life
of him, and she began to cry. Deep, ropy sobs, wrenched from that undefinable part of her that was capable of hurting the most.

Sam could hear his wife crying. He could feel her hands tightening around his neck. She’d gripped in the right places; the blood flow to his brain was being cut off. It created a huge pressure in his head, along with a lightheadedness and a faint pain in his chest. His lungs were starting to burn.

He kept his eyes closed, looking into the black. He prayed that he’d be able to keep them closed while he died. He didn’t want Linda to have to see him, to watch life leave him.

More burning now, panic was starting to come, he could sense it in the distance.

Fight it, Sam, he commanded himself. Hold on, it won’t be long now, you’ll pass out soon.

He would, he knew. He could feel it, black edges around his consciousness. Sparking. Once he fell into that blackness, that’d be it. That sparking was the last bit of himself. First he’d be enveloped by the black, and then he’d become the black.

Ooops…

He’d lost a moment there. Instead of sparks, there had been a flash, not of light, but of darkness. He realized that it wasn’t something he was going to be aware of, it was going to sneak up on him. A flash of dark would come and then it would stay, forever.

Another flash, but this one was brilliant, blinding, excruciating in its loveliness. He and Linda, naked in a rainstorm, the raindrops powerful and so
cold
. They shivered and they fucked and she was on top and lightning lit up the sky around her head as he came, so
hard
—

—Sarah wailing in the delivery room and he couldn’t breathe and his knees were weak and he was filled with such
triumph
—

—Sarah rushing toward him, hair in the wind, arms wide, laughing at the world, Linda rushing toward him, hair in the wind, arms wide, laughing at the world—

OliveJuiceOliveJuiceOliveJuice—

The last flash, and Sam Langstrom died.

He was smiling.