Chapter 7

A Plan Like No Other

"Look at all the toys I got

Look at all the things I need

Look at all the toys I got

Look at all the mouths I feed

Have I got a wonderful deal for you

What belongs to me belongs to you

I understand what you're going through

I know the point to push you to

My policy helps me helps you

Generosity helps me helps you

Conspiracy helps me helps you

Put your trust in me I'll help you too"

Helps Me Helps You, Midnight Oil

(Red Sails In The Sunset)

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Douglas stepped over the police tape that separated the Masons' living room from the outside balcony of their small apartment. He brushed past Arnold "Arnie" Cavalier, the forensic scientist on the Mason case, as he went into the kitchen.

"Something wrong, Cartland?" Arnie asked him, looking up from his current task, which was collecting microfibers with a set of strange tools. "You seem like you got somethin' on your mind."

"No," Douglas lied, staring out the window in the kitchen. It afforded him a not-so-nice view of the dead landscape beyond. This whole place seemed a lot deader since Harry's murder and Heather's confinement. Hell, the only reason Douglas himself hadn't joined Heather in the mental ward was because he hadn't spoken up about the things he'd seen in that town. He thought it was safe to say now that he'd gotten it right the first time around: That was one screwed-up town.

"You sure?" Arnie pursued, but he was already going back to his work, so it was mostly a question made for conversation. "Whatever floats your boat, man," he finished, and disappeared back into his own little world.

However, Douglas did have something on his mind. Why the hell was he even here at all? He already knew what had happened, and that Heather had been right about everything from the first word. He'd never actually gone on the roof before they'd left the apartment that time, but he trusted the girl. What reason would either of them have had to lie? In light of all this, he'd still come here with the forensics guys. It was a foolish charade; he was only here because, to the knowledge of the forensics team--as well as everyone else who knew him--his first visit to the Mason residence had been on the day he'd 'discovered' and reported the body of Harry Mason to the Portland PD. If he had told anybody about his real first visit to this sad place, that would have raised too many questions. Questions Douglas couldn't--or wouldn't--answer.

"Well, that's pretty much it for this room," Arnie said, standing up and dusting off his already blindingly white shirt. "We were thinking about closing up shop for the night, maybe coming back tomorrow. You coming?"

Douglas didn't reply. He stood by the window over the stove, staring out the window, lost in thought.

"Doug?"

Douglas started, then glanced at Arnie. He was about to ask what the forensic scientist had said when it registered. "Oh, sure, I guess." He sighed, then started towards the sliding-glass door that lead out into the back yard, where his car was parked.

"Cool. You wanna go out for pizza?" Arnie asked provocatively. "It's Hot Stuff!"

"No, thanks," Douglas responded, again brushing past the scientist, this time on his way out. "I'd better get back to Ashfield. It's been a long day."

"Oh," Arnie said, and Douglas could almost hear his heart sink. "Well, maybe next time, right?"

"Maybe next time," Douglas agreed, and climbed into the front seat of his car.

And with that said, Douglas pulled out of the Mason's yard and onto the main road, which he took all the way up until he reached Highway 80. He drove silently in the night all the way back to Ashfield, not turning on the radio, not listening to his taped reading of Stephen King's "The Gunslinger," which he was halfway through, and not thinking. There was too much to think about, and not enough to do about any of it.

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While Douglas was in Portland, not really doing anything and wishing he were back at the Ashfield Police Department trying to break Walter Sullivan, Walter himself sat on the bench in his cell, counting the ridges on the ceiling, one every second, to keep track of time. He'd learned how to count a true minute in his head a long time ago, and while he sometimes found that helpful, he sometimes found that it only made things worse. Knowing how long he'd been locked up in here made him want to start thinking about all the things he could be doing right now, and that was poison to his current situation...especially when it was considered that he might be spending the rest of his life in a room not too much different from this one.

He had been thinking about a lot of things, but the one thing that never really left his mind was what the other Walter had told him in that strange other world:

Just ask him about it...

He can be...influenced, if you know the right words...

He has been to Silent Hill. He knows what kind of things could be waiting there for you...

Just ask him about it...

That last one was what kept occuring to him. He knew he could use his knowledge of the detective's experience in Silent Hill to manipulate him...but the problem was, how would he manipulate the detective into helping him? Right now, the only thing the guy wanted to see more than Walter behind bars was Walter dead in an alley somewhere. Those weren't good odds, even when you considered that some being just short of God Himself was on his side.

Even if, in some far-fetched way, that God was himself.

Walter rolled over on the bench, his mind all but gone from his body...and then he rolled off the bench. He hit the hard floor with a smack and a rustle as the edge of the bench pushed his shirt up to his elbows, exposing the skin beneath and allowing the hard concrete on the floor to scrape it, eroding the first layer of skin off of his lower belly. Walter cursed under his breath and sat up, rolling his shirt back down and tucking it loosely back into his khaki pants. Yeah, this was getting to be some kind of day; if he got hurt like this when nobody was even around, he thought, imagine what would happen when the dirty cops got back!

"That'll be something for Dateline," Walter mumbled, and lurched over to the window. It was narrow, and barely afforded a view of the back parking lot...but at least it was somewhere that wasn't here. The inside of this cell was looking drabbier all the time, and Walter didn't know how much more of this isolation he could stand. At least when the cops came in to question him, he could play with them a little bit. But this was just boring.

He'd once heard of people who could watch a movie, memorize the entire spoken script of that movie, and then play it back from memory later on, when they weren't doing anything, like waiting for a flight or sitting through a boring lecture. Walter hadn't really believed that when he'd heard it, but right now that didn't matter; he really wished he could do that. At least it would kill the time. After all, if there was one thing Walter Romero Sullivan couldn't do well, it was waiting. Well, that, and maybe doing pull-ups. He'd always satisfied himself with the latter by saying, It doesn't matter how many pull-ups you can do if I have a gun and you don't. This was because of the .45 automatic he normally kept in the glove box in his car. Thankfully, it was sitting at home right now, waiting in his basement to be worked on...if it had been in his car the morning before, the little chance of getting out of this he actually had would be gone.

"Oh, son of a..." Walter hissed, remembering the article the detective had shown him earlier. MURDER SUSPECT'S HOME BURNED BY NIGHTFALL, ARSON SUSPECTED flashed in the front of his mind like a neon sign, and he pictured the .45 automatic as a part of that fire...first the polished exterior would have burned. Then, when the fire reached the interior, the shells he kept it loaded with would have burst...and his old vinyl collection, too, damn it! He still had--or at least, had had--an original vinyl of the Ramones' first album, still factory-sealed. It had been his prized record...and now it was probably so much ash in the wind. Walter was suddenly very angry; angry at the police, angry at the residents of Pleasant River, and most of all, angry at that bastard Walter Sullivan...but not himself, he reminded himself. That other guy, the one who was all Godlike. He didn't want to get a complex, thinking negative thoughts about himself like that.

"Oh, shut the hell up," he told his mind, which politely refused. "You can't get a complex from stuff like that, anyway." He turned back towards the door of his cell, mad as hell and ready to stir up trouble.

So when he saw Douglas Cartland standing there like doom in a beige trenchcoat, he uttered a terrified scream and leapt back against the far wall of the cell.

"Miss me?" Douglas asked. His voice was cracked, as though he had been shouting a lot.

"With a face like that?" Walter shot back half-heartedly; the real reason he had jumped was because, for just a second, the detective had looked like the other Walter. And Walter didn't like that guy.

"Ha, ha," Douglas said dryly, and leaned on the bars. He looked very tired. "Listen, I got some business to take care of in a kind of far-off place. I just wanted to say one thing before I left."

"Hugs and kisses?" Walter jeered, rising his inflection near the end of the sentence.

"Shut up," Douglas said irritably, and for once, Walter felt compelled to obey him. He sat down and closed his mouth, looking at the detective with a mix of curiosity and uncertainty. "You listening?" The detective asked.

"Yeah," Walter said.

"I just want to say that...well, I've done some thinking, and I'm..." He trailed off. Perhaps in hesitation?
"You're...?"

"Quiet," Douglas said. He never made eye contact with Walter, as though he were embarrassed by what he was about to say. "Let's just say that I'm not entirely convinced that you're the only one behind this." He spat this all out in one breath, like it was a parasite that he needed desparately to get rid of. And he looked a little better after he said it.

Walter stared, unbelieving. Had he said that? "Are you saying...you think I'm innocent?" Walter stood up and faced the detective through the bars, all facades cast aside for the moment. Maybe it was a bluff, to get Walter to really show himself, but Walter was willing to take that chance--It wasn't like his chances were any better if he didn't, anyway.

"That's not it at all," Douglas said shortly. "I'm just saying that, after examining the situation from many angles, I've determined that you might...not be as guilty as I thought." He stopped, then took a deep breath, followed by a deeper sigh. Then he added under his breath: "It's just not possible."

"What's not possible?" Walter asked, absorbed. "What are you talking about?"
Douglas looked up at Walter, then back at the floor. He seemed to be contemplating whether or not to tell Walter something. After a long pause, he finally spoke. "You know that guy that we caught ten years ago? The guy who got blamed for the first Sullivan Case?"

Walter nodded. He'd not only heard about it; he'd been mistaken for the guy so much that he'd almost started to believe that he might be him. Strangely, he could only remember bits and pieces of that time...but he didn't exactly want to, so that was okay.

"Well...it's probably suicide for my case for me to be telling you this, but...he's gone. Just up and gone, and nobody knows where he went."

Walter stared at the detective, eyes and lips sunken and sarcastic. "That's your big revelation? That's why you decided you think I might not be guilty?"
"That's not what I said," Douglas repeated. "And you don't get it: The guy's dead. Dead. He should be six feet under the ground right now. You know where he is?"
"Should I?" Walter asked. In light of recent events, it was not an entirely sarcastic question.

Douglas glared at him for the first time with real anger, and it scared Walter. This man had seen a lot in his lifetime, and Walter saw that experience reflected in that glare. It was sort of like being glared at by a version of the other Walter...and that was what really scared him.

Walter swallowed. Hard.

"His body. It's gone. The grave's empty. There's no prints, no traces, no fibers, no nothing. Somebody must've stolen the body, but I just...can't see how. It's impossible!" Douglas' neck twitched in frustration, and he backed away from the cell. "I've never seen anything like this in my entire life."

Walter listened to Douglas' words...and a thought occured to him.

"Wait a second," he said to the detective.

"What?" Douglas responded, without turning around.

"You have seen something like that before, haven't you?" Walter asked. He said it with a tone that suggested he might attack the detective. "In that town? Silent Hill?"

Douglas whirled around, and rushed up close to the bars to face Walter. Douglas was almost a full inch taller than Walter, so when he stood completely buffed-up like he was standing now, he seemed almost like a giant by comparison. "What do you mean? What do you know?"

Walter smiled. It was working! The other Walter had been correct...yeah, like he'd really expected him not to be? "I know that you went to Silent Hill. And I know you saw something there. But I don't know what."

"How do you know that?!" Douglas asked, furious. Even at the height of his anger, Douglas spoke slowly, and in soft, almost confused tones. "Wait...did you have something to do with her?!"

Walter's smile faded. "With her? Who's 'her'?"

"Claudia. Vincent. Any of that crowd. You know them, don't you?"

Walter started shaking his head as soon as he heard the name 'Claudia'. "Look, Danny, all I know is that Claudia is the daughter of Leonard, who was like, the big cheese of the Order. The only person he was really afraid of was that other bitch, the old one that burned her daughter in that fire."

Douglas looked Walter in the eyes for a long time after he said that, almost like he was searching for something. Even Walter could see that the man had just made a big connection. "Dahlia?" Douglas asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

"Yeah! That was it!" Walter pointed a finger at Douglas. "Dahlia. Dahlia Gippeto, or something like that."

"Gillespie," Douglas mumbled. So it was true, then; Heather had been right. Not that it helped much in his current case; all it did was tie some old loose ends...and those loose ends were too old to matter anymore.

Or so he thought.

"Yeah, Gillespie," Walter said. "She was crazy. She was from that other part of the Order, that Holy Mother sect...man, they were a fucked-up bunch!" Walter slapped his knee and chuckled, as though he were remembering good times. They weren't good times, by any means...but back then, anything that could get you laughing had been like gold. Laughter and good cheer had been two things on which the Order had been very short. Walter thought that he would thank the other Walter for wiping out the cult, if and when they ever met again. Good ol' 21 Sacraments...

21 Sacraments? What the hell did that mean?
"How do you know about...what I saw?" Douglas asked, snapping Walter out of his trance. "In Silent Hill? How did you find that out?"

Walter shrugged. "Lucky guess?"
"That's too damned good for a guess," Douglas pressed. "You must have been tailing us."

Walter laughed. "Tailing you? Guy, I didn't know you before yesterday morning!" He turned his head away, blinking twice. "I only know what I do because--" He paused.

"Because what?"

But Walter couldn't tell him how he knew, could he? The guy would think he was crazy. And even if he didn't, he would only have further reason to think him guilty--Oh, no, officer, it wasn't me! It was the other guy, who looks, talks, and acts exactly like me! Sure, we even have the same name--hell, even the same fingerprints!--but we're two totally different people, sir yes sir! Yeah, and I met him in an alternate reality, too! Wait...why does that white jacket have so many buckles on it? Yeah, that would go over real well with this guy. Mr. Logic, meet Mr. Fantasy. Shake hands? No? Oh, that's too bad.

"You'd better start talking," Douglas said. He was getting anxious. This guy knew something, something big, and Douglas didn't know how he knew. That meant that Douglas had a major blind spot that he had been overlooking. What else did this guy know about him? Or worse, about Heather?

Douglas had a momentary vision of Walter Sullivan as no more than an obsessed paparrazzi who had been in the wrong place at the wrong time...maybe chasing the trail of Heather Mason, without her knowledge, only to wind up in a twisted otherworld. But that didn't explain why Walter hadn't tried to help them out, or even to seek help from them. He quickly dismissed the idea.

Walter's face lit up all of a sudden. "Okay, Danny...I'll talk," he said. "But I have a condition. I want you to hear me out, first."

Douglas glared again, but this time there wasn't rage in it--just simple unease, and a bit of annoyance. "What?"

Walter sighed inside his head; maybe he had a chance, after all! "There's another person that I think may have played a part in the murders you're accusing me of."

Douglas' eyes lit up, and even though he tried to conceal that, Walter saw it.

"I was actually on my way to see this person before you arrested me. What you said about the body missing made me think, 'maybe this is the guy Danny here is looking for'!"

"Names, Walter," Douglas said, producing his pocket notebook. "Names, and any other information you have. Now."

"Ah, wait a moment," Walter said, putting a hand up to the bars in front of Douglas. "If I give you the name, you have to bring him here, right away. If he gets away, it'll be on you. You arrested me on my way to see him, so if he skips town today, then by the reflexive property, you let him get away--"

"Just tell me, Goddamnit!" Douglas snapped, almost raising his voice. Almost.

"Relax," Walter said, taking a step backward, as though Douglas might reach through the bars and seize him. Which was entirely possible, given his attitude at the moment. "He's not going anywhere real soon, at least I don't think. I was told by--" He paused, thought. "--a reliable source...that he would be going away shortly. He thinks he has business elsewhere, but..." he trailed off.

"What's his name?" Douglas said impatiently; he hated games.

"Hold your horses!" Walter said, but Douglas could see in his eyes that the game was up. Walter stepped right up to the bars, so close to Douglas' ear that they might have been lovers sharing some deep secret, and whispered two words into the detective's ear.

Douglas looked at Walter for a long time after that, not really sure what to make of it. "Are you sure that's the guy?"

"Yes," Walter said, rather calmly. "If you bring him here, I can prove it!"

Douglas' eyebrows furrowed. There was the doubt Walter had expected. "You'd better not be pulling my leg, Sullivan."

Walter didn't say anything...just smiled and tilted his head, as if to say, Why, oh why, would I do a thing like that?

END OF CHAPTER 7