Pity Him Afterwards

If Forrest’s baffled smile was phony, he was the most accomplished actor in the building. “I just don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said.

“You don’t know Everett Lowndes?”

“Well, gee, I don’t know, maybe I do.” He scratched his head in a boyish gesture; he seemed more outgoing than he had yesterday, probably because he’d been here longer now and was beginning to loosen up. “Would I know him from New York?”

“No, I don’t think so.” Sondgard returned his smile — he still might be the killer, so the pretense had to be maintained — and said, “Don’t mind me, I’m just tired. Maybe it wasn’t you at all that knew Eddie Cranshaw. Maybe it was Rod McGee knew him, and I’ve got my facts wrong. After three mur—”

But the boy didn’t let him finish. He said, “Are you kidding, Captain Sondgard?” The baffled smile was back on his face, as strong as ever.

Sondgard’s brows came together. “Kidding about what?”

“What do you mean, maybe Rod McGee was the one knew him?”

“But—”

Sincerity and bewilderment on his face, Forrest patted his own chest, saying, “For Pete’s sake, Captain Sondgard, I’m Rod McGee.”

As soon as he said it, the madman knew he’d made a mistake. For one awful second of vertigo, he was completely lost, swirling down in a whirlpool, as helpless and unknowing as an infant, even losing his balance on the stairs and starting to fall blindly and unknowingly downward...

And then it all came rushing back. Who he was. Where he was. How he had come to be here, and what had happened to him here, and what events had led to this last irrevocable blunder.

The being had come over him again, just after lunch. It had been growing and growing all morning, gaining strength from his increasing panic as the three-o’clock deadline neared. The conviction had strengthened in him that Daniels knew all, that he was indeed the agent of Doctor Chax, and that Sondgard knew as well, that Doctor Chax had set three o’clock as the time for the end of the experiment, and that at that time they would all swoop down on him at once: the Doctors Chax, Daniels, Sondgard, the state police, the male nurses, everyone, all of them, the whole world.

Until, almost gratefully, he had succumbed, he had abdicated, and the being had taken over, blunt, pragmatic, mindless.

And had become someone else!

Memory surged back into his mind, and understanding, even while comprehension was slowly coming over Sondgard’s features, even while Sondgard was stepping back from him, opening his mouth to cry out.

The madman leaped!

Batter! Batter! Close the gray-flecked eyes, and run!

He was over the crumpling Sondgard, at the door, out and away. The hunter’s horn sounded, and again, and a third time. Shouts went up. The pack was baying at his heels.

He ran flat out, with total physical effort, straight as an iron rod, and all at once the lake was in front of him again, glinting now in sunlight, and he kept running, white sprays of water crashing out away around his pistoning legs, till he was in too deep to run, the water clung to his legs, and he dove forward into it.

Behind him, the hunter’s horn sounded again, and then the flat dead cracks of shooting. Pistols, guns. Bullets.

He dove beneath the surface, hiding away in the cold depths, pushing, clawing his way through the water, farther and farther from shore, until his lungs were on fire and he had to surface again.

He didn’t look back. He surfaced for one scant instant, long enough to expel the dead and burning air, drag into his lungs the new cold air, see the flash of orange ahead of him, and submerge again.

Toward the flash of orange. Against all the dullness of blue and green, there had been only that one flash of orange. Not questioning it, only accepting and driving forward, thrusting forward, he clawed through the yellow-green water toward where he had seen the flash of orange.

He surfaced again for more air, and it was closer, much closer, and now he could see it was a sail. He was far from shore, close to the tiny boat with the orange sail. He submerged once more.

This time, before he had to surface, he saw undulating ahead and above him the curved bottom of the boat. Clamping his mouth shut against the need to breathe, he scuttled onward, arms and legs flailing and thrashing, under the boat and up at last on the other side.

His hand came up, clutched the side of the boat. The other hand followed. He pulled himself up, and rolled over the rail, and fell on the couple sleeping entwined together, nude and golden on a pale pink blanket.

There was no question, no hesitation. They were struggling up from their sun-sleep, and in a moment they would begin to make noise, and tell the Doctors Chax where their victim hid. He struck the girl with his right fist, twice, hard straight downward slams against her face, and the freshly opened eyes misted and reclosed. His left hand was already on the man’s throat, clutching as though to life itself. His other hand came over.