Show of Evil

cleared out for them. But in the outside world there was nothing but silence. Stampler had simply vanished into the night. Was he holed up somewhere in the city? Had he stolen another car? Vail was overwhelmed with anxiety, guilt, and hatred towards the man who had so successfully conned them all and was now on a madhouse killing spree.

He felt a slight pressure from Jane's hand and looked over at her. Her lips moved under the oxygen mask.

'Take it off,' her lips said.

'Can't do that, Janie.'

'Just a minute,' the lips said.

'Okay, just for a minute.' Vail reached over and slid the face mask down to her chin. She squeezed his hand again.

'Hi,' Vail said.

'Abel?' she asked, her speech blurred by drugs.

'He's carved up pretty badly, but they think he's going to make it.'

'Sav'd m'life, Marty.'

'And you saved his.'

'D'you catch Stampler?'

'Not yet. Just a matter of time. I can't stay long. I'm not even supposed to be in here.'

'Pull rank, you're th' DA…'m I all smashed up, Marty?'

'Nah. I know a good body shop, they'll knock the dents out in no time.'

She smiled up at him.

' 'Fraid m' goin''t'sleep again.'

'Sleep well, my dear. I'll be here when you wake up.'

'Marty?'

'Yeah?'

'Kiss me?'

He leaned over and gently touched her lips with his.

'I love you.'

'And I love you, Janie.'

And she drifted off again.

She was in a deep, deep sleep, dreaming the dream she always dreamed: She was walking through dense fog, hearing the voices but never quite seeing the faces that went with them, those harpy songs that taunted her, luring her deeper and deeper into the mist. Help me, help me, help me, the voices cried until the sense of futility overwhelmed even her dreams, until suddenly she stepped into the hole and fell through the clouds, tumbling towards oblivion until she awakened with a start. This time as she moved through the cottony mist, her feet froze in place and the haze blazed into light just before she fell. She awoke with a start. The bed-table light was on and her feet were tied to the foot of the bed. She tried to scream, but her mouth was bound with tape. Fear turned sour in her mouth. She looked around and saw, a few inches from her face, a scalpel.

Its blade twinkled as it was twisted in the light's beam. Her eyes gradually refocused on the face behind the scalpel's edge.

'Hi, Miss Molly,' he said in the innocent Appalachian accent he had discarded years before. ' 'Member me?'

She recognized Stampler immediately. Time had not changed him that much. Molly Arrington's heart was pounding in her throat, her temples, her wrists. She was having trouble breathing through her nose. Behind him, she saw the open window, the curtains wafting lazily in the draft. She peered at him in terror, but then just as quickly - as she adjusted to waking up - she grew calm. Questions assaulted her mind. How did he get here? What was he doing?

'Listen to me,' he said, and his voice was cold, calculating, without accent or tone. 'I'm going to take that tape off your mouth, but if you scream, if you talk above a whisper, I'll make an incision right here' — he put the point of the blade against her throat - 'and cut out your vocal cords. It won't kill you, unless maybe you drown in your own blood, but it will be almighty painful. Do we have an understanding?' She slowly nodded.

He picked a corner of the tape up with the tip of his little finger and then ripped it off. It tore her lips. Tears flushed her eyes, but she did not scream.

'That's good, that's very, very good,' he said. 'I always did admire your spunk. I suppose you have some questions?'