The Face of Death

between it and their child? Or would something more primal and shameful take over?

I would die for her, Linda realized. In spite of what was happening, this made her proud. It was freeing. It gave her focus. She concentrated on what The Stranger was saying. What did she have to do to keep him from burning her baby?

'You can prevent this,' The Stranger continued. 'All you have to do is strangle your husband.'

Sam was startled from his reverie of rage.

What did he just say?

The Stranger reached into a bag near the couch, pulling out a small video camera and a collapsible tripod. He placed the camera on the tripod and positioned it so that it was pointing at her and Sam. He pushed a button, there was a musical tone, and Linda realized they were now being filmed.

What did he just say?

'I want you to put your hands around his neck, Linda, and I want you to look into his eyes, and I want you to strangle your husband. I want you to watch him die. Do it, and Sarah will not burn. Refuse, and I'll put the flame to her until she smokes.'

The rage had gone away, far, far away. Had it ever really been there?

It didn't feel like it to Sam. He was dazed. He felt like someone had just hit him in the face with a hammer.

It was as if his ability to comprehend had been ratcheted up to a superhuman level. He was thinking in fractals, seeing the interconnectedness of everything in strobe flashes. Truths arrived in rifle cracks of illumination.

This leads to this leads to that . . . and the sum is always the same. He and Linda were going to die. He understood that with a sudden certainty.

Too sudden?

No. This man was implacable. He wasn't testing them. He wasn't pranking them, this wasn't a trick. He was here to kill them. Sam wasn't going to break free and save his family. There wouldn't be any Hollywood-movie moment of sudden redemption. The bad guys were going to win and get away clean.

This leads to this leads to that . . .

Only one outcome wasn't yet decided, the most important one: What was going to happen to Sarah.

He looked at his daughter. Sadness overwhelmed him. What would happen to Sarah? He realized he'd never really know. His little girl, if she survived this, would go on. Sam would end here. He'd never know if any sacrifice made had saved her or not. She looked so small. The couch was just a yard away, but it might as well have been a light-year. A new wave of sadness, choking and desperate. He was never going to touch his little girl again! The kiss he'd given her last night, the hug, had been the last of it. He looked over at Linda. She was listening to The Stranger, her eyes intent. Sam drank in the image of her chestnut hair and her brown eyes, and then he closed his own and remembered her so hard that he could almost smell her, a scent of hand soap and woman, as uniquely Linda as her DNA.

He remembered her clothed and classy, and he remembered her naked underneath him, in her studio, covered in paint and sweat. He remembered his daughter too. He remembered that the surge of love he'd felt when he first heard her cry was so strong it threatened to consume him. It was fierce, and it was huge, and it was larger than he could ever hope to be alone.

He remembered her laughter, and her tears, and her trust. Last, he remembered them together, the wife and the daughter. Sarah asleep in Linda's arms as a baby, after a long and colicky night. He remembered and he felt sad and he felt angry and he wanted to fight, but--

The sum is always the same.

He opened his eyes, and he turned to Linda, and this time she was looking back at him. He tried to make his eyes smile, tried to show her the all of everything inside him, and then--he closed his eyes, once, and nodded.

It's okay, babe, he was telling her. Do it, it's okay. Linda knew what her husband was saying. Of course she did--

they'd talked without words, plenty of times. We may be different in some ways, he was saying, but in those places where the rubber meets the road, we're one person.

One tear slid from her right eye.

'I'll remove his gag, and I will uncuff your wrists. You will put your hands around his neck and then you'll squeeze until he's dead. You'll kill him, and Sarah will watch, and it will be terrible for you, I know, but I won't touch Sarah when I'm done with the two of you.'

He cocked his head, seeming to notice for the first time that something had passed between Sam and Linda.

'You've already decided, haven't you? Both of you.' He was quiet for a moment. 'Did you hear that, little one? Mommy is going to kill Daddy to keep me from burning you with fire. Do you know what you should learn from that?'

No reply.

'The same lesson as before. Mommy is going to be ruthless, and it's going to save you. Did you hear me, Sarah? Mommy's ruthlessness is going to save you. Her willingness to feel pain for you is going to save you. Strength, finally, to support that mother-love.'

Sarah was hearing what The Stranger was saying, but they weren't real words to her. She believed in monsters. In the end though, the monsters always lost.

Didn't they?

God made sure that nothing truly bad happened to good people. This wouldn't be any different. It was scary, it was terrifying, it was terrible that Buster had died. But if she could hold it together, The Stranger wouldn't win. Daddy would stop him, or God would stop him, or maybe even Mommy.

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