The Face of Death

I walked over to the tub. 'Look into his eyes,' he told me. I did.' Sarah swallows. 'I could see that he'd told the truth. Dean was . . . there. He knew what was going on. He was aware.' She shivers. 'He was also terrified. You could see it in his eyes. He was so scared.'

'Then what happened?'

'The Stranger told me to step back. He angled Dean's head forward, so his chin stuck out.' She cranes her own neck, showing me.

' 'When you know the moment of your own death, you know the meaning of both truth and fear, Mr. Kingsley,' he said. 'It makes you wonder what comes next: the glory of heaven or the fires of hell? I tortured a student of philosophy not long ago, a bad, evil man. I cut him, I burned him, I shocked him. I was waiting. I had told him before we began: If he could come up with a single original observation about life, I would end the pain. On the morning of the second day, while I was castrating him, he screamed: 'We are all living in the moments before our own death!' I kept my promise, and gave him release. I remember that truth before I kill someone.' '

Sarah swallows. 'Then The Stranger cut Dean's throat. Just like that.' Her voice sounds distant and amazed. 'No warning. So quick. The blood spurted out. The Stranger kept Dean's neck angled so the blood would go into the tub. I remember thinking that I couldn't believe how much of it there was.'

About five or six quarts in the average human body. Not even enough to fill up a kitchen sink halfway, but blood is supposed to stay inside, so six quarts can seem like sixty.

'What happened then?'

'It went on for a while. The blood was spurting at first, then it was dribbling. Then it stopped. 'Look into his eyes again,' he told me. I did.' She closes her own eyes. 'Dean was gone. Nobody home.'

She's quiet for a moment, remembering.

'He lifted Dean out of the tub and laid him down on the carpet.'

A long silence.

'And then?' I prod.

'I know what you're thinking,' she whispers.

Her voice is filled with self-loathing, and she can't meet my eyes.

'What, Sarah? What am I thinking?'

'How could I just stand there while he did these things and not try to get away?'

'Look at me.' I put some force into my tone and make her face me.

'I wasn't thinking that. I know: He could move fast. He had a knife. You didn't think you'd be able to get away.'

Her face twists, once. She shudders, a wave, head to toe, involving the whole of her.

'That part is true, but . . . it's not the only reason.'

Once again, she can't meet my eyes.

'What's the other reason?' I keep my voice gentle, free of judgment.

It's a sad little shrug. 'I knew he wouldn't kill me. I knew if I just stood there and watched, and did what he said, and didn't try to get away, he wouldn't hurt me. Because that's how he wants me. Alive and in pain.'

'In my opinion and experience,' I say, after a moment, my voice careful, 'alive and in pain is better than dead.'

She appraises me. 'You think so?'

'I do.' I point at my scars. 'I have to look at these every day, and remember what they mean. It hurts. I'd still rather be alive.'

A bitter smile. 'You might not feel that way if you had to go through it all again every few years.'

'I might not,' I say. 'But the important thing is that, right now, you still do.'

I can see her considering this. I can't tell what she decides.

'So,' she continues, 'he stood over Laurel for a minute, just looking down at her. Her body didn't move, she didn't even blink--but she cried.' Sarah shakes her head, her expression haunted. 'A single line of tears from the corner of each eye. The Stranger smiled at her, but it wasn't a happy smile. He wasn't making fun of her or anything. He almost seemed sad. He leaned forward and he closed her eyes with his fingers.'

We hadn't known until now that he closed their eyes pre-mortem. It confirms my belief that men are his primary target. He closed Laurel's eyes because he didn't want her to see what was coming. Big deal--he still killed her.

I park these thoughts, for now.

'And then?' I ask.

Sarah looks away from me. Her face changes, along with her voice, becoming wooden, mechanical. When she speaks, it's a staccato. 'He stood up. Picked her up, stood her in the tub. He slit her throat. Bled her out, dropped her on the rug.' She's trying to hurry through this memory. It takes me a moment to realize why.

'You were closer to Laurel than you were to Dean, weren't you?' I ask softly.

She doesn't cry, but she closes her eyes tight for a moment.

'She was nice to me.'

'I'm sorry, Sarah. What happened next?'

'He had me help him move their bodies into the bedroom. He didn't really need my help. I think he just wanted to keep my hands occupied so I couldn't run away. We carried Dean in first, and then Laurel. He grabbed them under their arms, I took them by the feet. They were so pale. I've never seen a person white like that. Like milk. We laid them on the bed.'

She goes silent.

'What, Sarah?'

I see a little bit of that same emptiness I'd seen in her last night. Some of the girl at the window, gun to her head, singing a onenote song.

'He had a long leather case in his pocket. He opened it up and took out a scalpel. He handed it to me, and he told me . . . he told me . . . he told me . . . how to cut them. 'Throat to waist,' he said. 'One slice, no hesitation. I'm letting you do this, Sarah. Letting you expose what they really are, inside.' ' Her eyes are a little glazed. 'It's like I wasn't really there. Like I wasn't in myself. I just remember thinking,

'Do what you have to do to stay alive.' Thinking that, over and over and over, as I took the scalpel and I went over to Laurel and cut her open and I went over to Dean and cut him open and I peeled their skin back because The Stranger told me to and there was muscle, and he made me cut that too, and peel that away and now there's bone and guts and he made me put my hands inside and pull and pull and pull and it was like rubber Jell-O and wet and it smelled and then it was'--

her head slumps forward--'over.'

The words had rushed out of her, not stopping, a flood. Emptying her and filling me, sewer water, a death- river, horror at high tide. I want to stand up and run away and never see or hear or think of Sarah again.

But you can't. She's got more to say.

I look at Sarah. She's gazing down at her hands.

' 'Do what you have to do to stay alive,' that's what I kept thinking,' she whispers. 'He just smiled and filmed the whole thing. Do what you have to do to stay alive. To stay alive. '

'Should we stop?' I ask.

She turns to me, dreamy-eyed but confused.

'What?'

'Should we stop? Do you need a break?'

She stares at me. She seems to come back to herself. She presses her lips together and shakes her head.

'No. I want to get through this.'

'You're sure?'

'I'm sure.'

Maybe, maybe not. But I need to hear the rest of it, and I think she needs to tell it.

'Okay. What happened next?'

She rubs her face with her hands. 'He told me to come downstairs with him. I followed him, down to the