Disclaimer: I do not own any of Stephen King's characters. Or Johnny
Depp. Dang.
A/N: Thanks to all you groovy readers for reviewing! I just wanted to give a pat on the back for all of you who caught my mistake in the first chapter (it's fixed now, because story mistakes drive me crazy). Tom Greenleaf was indeed not a sheriff like I said he was, but just an innocent citizen of Tashmore County. Gold stars for all of you who caught that! And to answer the other question, Mort knew her full name, Zoë Oltie, because he read all of it on her badge. He's a sneaky bastard, isn't he? But that's why we love him so. Onward to the next chapter then! Enjoy it immensely!
PineAppleLint
* * *
Well, that's what she thought until she felt a hand on her shoulder. Zoë let out a muffled cry and turned around so fast, she lost her balance and fell into the muddy garden. She smirked when she realized it had been no hand touching her shoulder, just a brittle cornstalk stem rubbing up against her.
"I must be going out of my mind," she said softly, rubbing at her forehead as if to rid herself of the uneasiness floating through her mind. Zoë winced when she spotted the flashlight stuck in the mud two feet away. It had flown from her numb hand in the midst of her spastic fall. She made a grab for it and sighed. The batteries were dead. She shook it, but it was no use.
"Stupid Walmart," she hissed, "Stupid on-sale flashlights!"
"Do you need some batteries?"
Zoë froze. She swore under her breath and closed her eyes tight. No, this couldn't be happening, this couldn't be happening...
"Mr. Rainey, what a nice surprise," she replied, turning to face him. He stood there in front of her, his hand casually placed in his faded jean pocket, his glasses spotted with raindrops even though he held a black umbrella over his head.
"Likewise," he said with a grin, "I didn't think I'd see you again so soon, much less digging around in my garden."
"What can I say?" Zoë commented, standing up and rubbing her muddy palms on her own jeans, "I have a deep fascination for gardening."
"Want to come inside?" Mort questioned with arched eyebrows.
"No, I'm good. Really."
"It's no trouble. You're soaking wet. You'll catch something."
"Probably," she responded.
"You're scared shitless, aren't you?" he said. He ran a finger through his goatee stubble, the eerie smile widening as he did so.
"Why would I be afraid of you, Mr. Rainey?" Zoë asked politely, but a certain sharpness accented her voice, "Unless, there was a reason for me to be. Should I be afraid of you, Morton?"
His smile wavered, but his fierce brown eyes never left her face. "Come inside and perhaps I will tell you what you want to know." He turned back to the house and whistled to himself as he made his way back up the porch, leaving her to decide what she wanted to do. To follow, or to get back in that car and hightail it out of there.
Zoë sighed and knew that her decision had already been made.
* * *
She followed him up the stairs reluctantly, staring down at her feet when she found out that looking straight ahead would give her a great view of Mort's ass. It was a nice ass, but it was a shame that it was the personal property of a killer.
"You can pick something out of my closet and change," he informed her, turning back to glance at her when she went up the very last creaky step. Zoë paused, resting a hand on his desk as she stared down at his laptop. The cursor was blinking, and the words typed out on the Microsoft Word screen went a little something like this:
Jake Tomley couldn't hide his secret any longer. He was living a lie as well as living alone. He wanted to change that, to finally free himself from the shackles that weighed him down. This strong feeling had started when he was walking down the aisle of the supermarket one day and he grabbed the last box of his favorite cereal off of the shelf, and when he glanced up, the greenest eyes he had ever seen was staring back at him. Liv Benkins, the new girl in town, had awakened something in him he never knew existed. That he nev-
It ended there so suddenly. He must have heard her making a commotion outside and had abandoned his writing to go investigate.
"Do you like it?" he questioned, walking up to her slowly. His brown sneakers made no sound as he walked.
"Does my opinion matter?" she shrugged, turning to face him, "I'm no writer. But yes, it's very good."
"You're not just saying that to be nice?" he teased, leaning against the desk with her. She stared down at her feet again. A puddle was forming where the rain water dripped off her clothes and pooled at her feet.
"What if I was?" Zoë said with a smile. With a flick of her hand she added, "No, I like it." Besides the fact that his character Liv Benkins reminded her of someone...herself. And that was more than a little creepy.
Mort looked genuinely pleased at her remark. "Come on, I bet you're freezing." He ushered her into his bedroom. She gazed around, at the tiny closed window that was being splattered by the steady downpour of rain, at the unmade bed covered with two old quilts, and the plain oak dresser that had a couple books and some loose change scattered on top of it.
He pulled out a pair of brown pants and a blue button-up long sleeved shirt of his, handing it to her. She hesitantly took them into her arms. "If you need anything, I'll be downstairs."
"You don't have to do all this," she said quietly.
"No, I want to." He winked at her and left the room in a hurry before she started to change as if he were too bashful to stick around any longer. He WINKED at her! What the hell was going on here?
Zoë shut the door behind him and took the gun out of the waistband of her jeans and threw it on the bed. After glancing around to soothe her paranoid self, she began to undress quickly, sticking close to her gun the whole time. If he so much as tried to peek at her while she was naked, she'd blow his brains out. But for some reason she didn't think he was so desperate for some action that he would be a peeping Tom. Zoë laughed to herself. For goodness sakes, she was undressing in Mort Rainey's bedroom. It was enough to send the tiny hairs on the back of her neck on end.
Rainey was a skinny man, but the pants were still too big on her. As she buttoned up the soft blue shirt, she opened the closet door once more and searched for a belt. She kneeled on the cool wooden floor and reached for the box hidden under the mess of clothes. It felt forbidden, rooting through his personal things, but she was looking for a belt, right? She peered inside the box and pulled out the first thing that touched her fingers. A hat. It was a black hat with a round rim and was faintly smudged with dust. It looked like it belonged to a dairy farmer or some kind of Quaker. As she ran her fingers over it, she shuddered as a weird sensation settled over her. She was never one for superstitious nonsense, but the hat felt oddly evil.
Zoë grinned and placed it on her head, marveling at her new look in the bathroom mirror. It was a bold fashion statement, she mused, standing there in her underwear, Mort's large blue shirt, and a farmer hat. She wondered why Mort even owned a hat like that one.
"Howdy, m'am," she said in a thick southern drawl, tipping her hat at the mirror, "Well, I'm off to go milk ol' Bess." She snickered at her own foolishness.
There was a knock at the door. "Zoë?" Mort called, "Are you all right? I heard voices."
"I'm fine!" she called back, taking the hat off of her head in a flash, "I'll be down in a minute!"
There was no reply, so he must have headed back downstairs. She pulled on the brown pants and found a black belt. It helped some, but the pants were so baggy she felt swallowed by them. Finally, she cracked open the door and headed downstairs in bare feet, the mysterious hat still between her fingers. Zoë was going to ask him about it.
She found him on the couch, going through a manuscript of his. He was bent over, hovering over it on the coffee table next to the couch, casually biting his nail in thought as his eyes skimmed the white pages.
"Mort?"
He glanced up at her and grew rigid when he spotted the hat she was carrying. She took a seat next to him on the couch and said, "I don't mean to pry, but I found this in your closet, and...wow, it's a funny looking hat. Where did you get it?"
He swallowed hard and Zoë noticed he started to sweat. "Are you okay, Mr. Rainey? I'm sorry, I shouldn't be asking these things..."
"No," he said quietly, "It's fine. I found it at a garage sale a couple years back."
"Well how do you look in it?" she joked, "Dashing? Gallant?" She leaned over and attempted to place the hat on his head, but he suddenly jerked and jumped off of the couch, desperately trying to get away from her. She stared up at him, clearly startled.
"No," he said loudly, touching the side of his face, "You can't come back. Get the hell away."
"I'm sorry, I..."
"No, not you, Zoë. Not..." he paused and clenched his teeth together. "Shooter," he mumbled, "We've been through this. I can't...no more..."
"Mort," Zoë demanded, "What's going on?" He bunched his hands in his hair and whimpered. She got up and forced his hands down to his sides. "Shhh, its fine, calm down..." Zoë paused when his gaze met hers.
He whispered, "Run."
Mort reached over, plucked the black hat off of the couch, and placed it on his head. His whole demeanor changed. He stood tall and proud, a cocky smile graced his face, and his eyes became soulless. Now she was truly scared shitless.
"Mort? This isn't funny..." she said with a frown and backed away from him.
"Oh, Mort isn't here right now," he replied in a thick southern accent, "But I'll take care of him, missus. Don't you fret none. He just has a lot of thinkin' to do."
Her gun. Dammit, her gun was still upstairs on the bed. She slowly began to back up towards the stairs. But if she went upstairs, she'd be trapped with no way out of the house...
"Then who are you?" she asked calmly, touching the banister.
"The name's Shooter, m'am," he said with a tip of his hat, "And why, you are a purty lil' morsel. It's a shame you don't stop by more often. Our Mort's been thinkin' about you quite a lot."
"Well, that's nice of him." She took a step backwards and went up a step. He followed her, causing her to grow more anxious. She wanted to just turn around and run as fast as she could, but that might trigger his violent behavior. For now she would have to just take it easy...
"The thing is, pilgrim," 'Shooter' commented, "Is that you've been distractin' him, and I just can't have that." He shook his head violently. "No siree. I done tolds him to leave you alone but he just couldn't resist. Silly Mort, always disobeyin' me. Then I tolds him to get his share o' you then toss you aside. He couldn't have that either, missus. He just couldn't."
"Then, what does Mort want? What do you want...Shooter?"
"Mort needs you, darlin'. He can feel it in his gut and it makes a son o' a bitch like me sick. Now me..." Shooter grinned darkly, "Now Shooter wants to see you gone, honey. One way o' the other."
Zoë turned and ran. She could hear the sound of Mort's sneakers right on her tail, following close behind up the stairs. She tried to shut and lock the door, but he got a hand through the crack and pushed it open. She screamed and dove for her gun, but 'Shooter' knocked her over so she fell head over heels onto the floor. He was on top of her, holding her hands and pressing into her so she could barely breathe.
"Mort," she shouted, "Stop it!"
"I told you, pilgrim," he said emotionlessly, "He ain't here. But I'd be glad to take a message."
"Bastard," she seethed, "You shut the hell up and bring Mort back."
"Quite the big talker, Miz Oltie. Don't get your britches in a bunch, darlin'. I'll take care o' you." She screamed again when he backhanded her, sending her head reeling to the floor. He straddled her hips and let go of her arms. He placed his own hands around her throat and squeezed, grinning down at her all the while. She scratched the side of his face with her nails and he howled.
"You bitch!" he cried, touching the angry red welt starting to form. She bucked, throwing him off and she kicked him in the face with her foot. Zoë quickly stood up on wobbly legs and was about to reach for the gun but Shooter knocked it out of her reach.
"You've got a good weapon, pilgrim," he drawled, "But it's not polite to go around shootin' people, hmm?"
She stood there, as still as death itself, afraid to even breathe.
"You scare too easy, agent," he chuckled, "But I won't hurt you. Well, not yet anyways."
"What do you want from me?" she whispered.
"Nothing, missus. That's why I'm going to do ol' Mort a favor by givin' you a wake up call. I don't trust you. You'll just provide the noose for our hangin' if I don't intervene."
"Why would you think that?" she asked, staring at him.
"You think we don't know what you're doin'?" he laughed, "Catching you in our garden? Askin' those pesky questions? You want to see us locked up for good. Mort even knows that, but he won't listen to what I want. It's what would be good for both of us."
"Fine," Zoë said bravely, holding up her hands in mock defeat, "What do you think will be good for the both of you? My death? You think killing an FBI agent is going to make things all dandy? You'll get the death penalty, Shooter, even if you deserve it already. You can't escape the law."
"You don't know when to keep your mouth shut!" he growled, taking another step closer to her.
"Another step and you're done for," she warned, "Mort? Come on, Mort, I know you're in there some where!" Zoë was starting to sound a little desperate.
"You stupid woman!" 'Shooter' yelled, "I told you, Mort isn't..." he froze. His confident form slouched and he blinked a couple of times. The black hat dropped from his head and rolled across the floor.
"Mort?" Zoë questioned wearily, "Is it you?"
He swayed a little and met her stare. He was trembling, and his voice wavered as he answered, "Zoë? Holy shit..." The accent had vanished.
Mort ran over to her and pulled her into his arms. "Zoë..." he whispered, "Zoë, I'm so sorry..." She was unresponsive to his touch. She had never trusted him, but now that feeling of distrust had multiplied itself a billion times over.
"I need a cigarette," he breathed, laughing shakily before burying his face in her damp brown hair. She hesitantly wrapped her arms around him and patted his back in order to provide some kind of comfort.
"Smoking is bad for you," she stated.
"Zoë, I never meant...shit, I..."
"Mort," she said softly, "You have a lot of explaining to do."
"No," he shook his head wildly, "I can't..."
"For fucking sakes," she said angrily, pushing him away from her, "You just threatened me! And you called yourself Shooter!" She took a breath and said, "I want to know what's going on, Mort. There is something psychologically wrong with you."
He removed his glasses and rubbed at his eyes. "I know."
"So you won't talk?" she said. Narrowing her eyes at him, she reached for her wet pair of jeans and grabbed her cell phone out of the back pocket. "That's it," she muttered, "I'm calling my boss..."
Before she knew what was happening, he grabbed the phone from her hands and threw it. It smashed against the wall and rained down onto the floor in tiny pieces.
"You asshole!" she cried out. He glanced at her and began to walk downstairs. She gathered up her things, including her clothes and her gun, and followed him down.
"So you won't tell me anything?" she laughed hysterically, "Because that wasn't a bunch of fun upstairs just then, let me tell you. What do you have, a split personality? I have a right to know."
He opened the front door and motioned for her to leave. "Go," he said.
"Why, aren't you the polite one," she commented sarcastically. The rain had slowed up a bit. Zoë grumbled to herself and got out the keys to her car. "I will figure this out, Mort," she added, "Don't think I'm going to drop this case because I'm afraid of you."
"If you were wise, you'd stay as far away from me as you can," he replied harshly.
"Well I just can't do that," she said quietly, "It's my job."
He shook his head, his brown highlighted hair brushing against his face. "You don't understand, Ms. Oltie. I like you a lot. I...enjoy your company. But he doesn't. And I can't risk it. Don't you see? I can't!"
"Then fight it," she urged, "Don't let Shooter, whoever he is, win, do you understand me?"
His eyes filled with remorse as he suddenly grabbed her. He whispered, "Leave..." Before she could stop him, he pressed his lips to hers. It was soft, undemanding, light. He broke away before she could even blink. "...before it's too late."
She ran all the way to her car.
* * *
Zoë had changed out of Mort's clothes once she got home. They gave her the willies. She talked to T about what had happened and he was seriously considering reassigning her to another case. She talked him out of it, though, or at least succeeded in letting him give her a couple more days.
Curling up in her bed, she yawned and began to think of this 'Shooter' personality Mort possessed. While talking to Mort when he was like that, it was like she was talking to a totally different person. He needed help. Was she just making things worse like he said? Or was he pushing her away simply because she was too close to the truth? She giggled to herself. It was beginning to sound like an X-Files episode.
Pulling out the book "Everybody Drops the Dime", she set it on her bed and ran her fingers through her drying hair. Zoë had taken a shower to calm herself down and to get her in the right mind for some serious thinking. Mort Rainey had kissed her and that little fact was freaking her out beyond belief. Heck, she could handle being threatened, but KISSED? Much less by a murderer? The man who had bodies in his backyard that she was supposed to be digging up? 'Shooter' had told her that Mort thought about her a lot, that he cared. Switching over to another case didn't sound so bad after all, but she was never one to quit.
The night had calmed, the rain had disappeared. Wind streamed in through her opened window and she heard a fluttering noise. Looking up, she saw the pages of the book at the end of her bed flutter in the wind. She reached over and grabbed it, glancing at what page it had opened to.
Zoë blinked a couple times. Forget what page. It had opened to the beginning of 'Secret Window'. Maybe there were clues hidden in his short novel, metaphors that really weren't metaphors, similes that whispered secrets about his life, adjectives that described people he really had known. She began reading the first paragraph:
Todd Downey thought that a woman who would steal your love when your love was really all you had was not much of a woman. He therefore decided to kill her. He would do it in the deep corner formed where the house and the barn came together at an extreme angle--he would do it where his wife kept her garden.
Zoë paused and massaged the back of her neck. The woman who stole his love. Todd Downey. Killed her. In the garden. It was all too realistic, too exact to be coincidence. This was Mort Rainey's dark world written plainly out on paper.
And it was up to her to crack the code. Who was John Shooter? Four bodies, four graves. All in the garden? It was her job to find out.
She got up and grabbed a can of coke from the refridgerator, popping the top and taking a hearty swig before settling back down with the book. Yup.
It was going to be a long night.
* * *
Reviews are wonderful things!
A/N: Thanks to all you groovy readers for reviewing! I just wanted to give a pat on the back for all of you who caught my mistake in the first chapter (it's fixed now, because story mistakes drive me crazy). Tom Greenleaf was indeed not a sheriff like I said he was, but just an innocent citizen of Tashmore County. Gold stars for all of you who caught that! And to answer the other question, Mort knew her full name, Zoë Oltie, because he read all of it on her badge. He's a sneaky bastard, isn't he? But that's why we love him so. Onward to the next chapter then! Enjoy it immensely!
PineAppleLint
* * *
Well, that's what she thought until she felt a hand on her shoulder. Zoë let out a muffled cry and turned around so fast, she lost her balance and fell into the muddy garden. She smirked when she realized it had been no hand touching her shoulder, just a brittle cornstalk stem rubbing up against her.
"I must be going out of my mind," she said softly, rubbing at her forehead as if to rid herself of the uneasiness floating through her mind. Zoë winced when she spotted the flashlight stuck in the mud two feet away. It had flown from her numb hand in the midst of her spastic fall. She made a grab for it and sighed. The batteries were dead. She shook it, but it was no use.
"Stupid Walmart," she hissed, "Stupid on-sale flashlights!"
"Do you need some batteries?"
Zoë froze. She swore under her breath and closed her eyes tight. No, this couldn't be happening, this couldn't be happening...
"Mr. Rainey, what a nice surprise," she replied, turning to face him. He stood there in front of her, his hand casually placed in his faded jean pocket, his glasses spotted with raindrops even though he held a black umbrella over his head.
"Likewise," he said with a grin, "I didn't think I'd see you again so soon, much less digging around in my garden."
"What can I say?" Zoë commented, standing up and rubbing her muddy palms on her own jeans, "I have a deep fascination for gardening."
"Want to come inside?" Mort questioned with arched eyebrows.
"No, I'm good. Really."
"It's no trouble. You're soaking wet. You'll catch something."
"Probably," she responded.
"You're scared shitless, aren't you?" he said. He ran a finger through his goatee stubble, the eerie smile widening as he did so.
"Why would I be afraid of you, Mr. Rainey?" Zoë asked politely, but a certain sharpness accented her voice, "Unless, there was a reason for me to be. Should I be afraid of you, Morton?"
His smile wavered, but his fierce brown eyes never left her face. "Come inside and perhaps I will tell you what you want to know." He turned back to the house and whistled to himself as he made his way back up the porch, leaving her to decide what she wanted to do. To follow, or to get back in that car and hightail it out of there.
Zoë sighed and knew that her decision had already been made.
* * *
She followed him up the stairs reluctantly, staring down at her feet when she found out that looking straight ahead would give her a great view of Mort's ass. It was a nice ass, but it was a shame that it was the personal property of a killer.
"You can pick something out of my closet and change," he informed her, turning back to glance at her when she went up the very last creaky step. Zoë paused, resting a hand on his desk as she stared down at his laptop. The cursor was blinking, and the words typed out on the Microsoft Word screen went a little something like this:
Jake Tomley couldn't hide his secret any longer. He was living a lie as well as living alone. He wanted to change that, to finally free himself from the shackles that weighed him down. This strong feeling had started when he was walking down the aisle of the supermarket one day and he grabbed the last box of his favorite cereal off of the shelf, and when he glanced up, the greenest eyes he had ever seen was staring back at him. Liv Benkins, the new girl in town, had awakened something in him he never knew existed. That he nev-
It ended there so suddenly. He must have heard her making a commotion outside and had abandoned his writing to go investigate.
"Do you like it?" he questioned, walking up to her slowly. His brown sneakers made no sound as he walked.
"Does my opinion matter?" she shrugged, turning to face him, "I'm no writer. But yes, it's very good."
"You're not just saying that to be nice?" he teased, leaning against the desk with her. She stared down at her feet again. A puddle was forming where the rain water dripped off her clothes and pooled at her feet.
"What if I was?" Zoë said with a smile. With a flick of her hand she added, "No, I like it." Besides the fact that his character Liv Benkins reminded her of someone...herself. And that was more than a little creepy.
Mort looked genuinely pleased at her remark. "Come on, I bet you're freezing." He ushered her into his bedroom. She gazed around, at the tiny closed window that was being splattered by the steady downpour of rain, at the unmade bed covered with two old quilts, and the plain oak dresser that had a couple books and some loose change scattered on top of it.
He pulled out a pair of brown pants and a blue button-up long sleeved shirt of his, handing it to her. She hesitantly took them into her arms. "If you need anything, I'll be downstairs."
"You don't have to do all this," she said quietly.
"No, I want to." He winked at her and left the room in a hurry before she started to change as if he were too bashful to stick around any longer. He WINKED at her! What the hell was going on here?
Zoë shut the door behind him and took the gun out of the waistband of her jeans and threw it on the bed. After glancing around to soothe her paranoid self, she began to undress quickly, sticking close to her gun the whole time. If he so much as tried to peek at her while she was naked, she'd blow his brains out. But for some reason she didn't think he was so desperate for some action that he would be a peeping Tom. Zoë laughed to herself. For goodness sakes, she was undressing in Mort Rainey's bedroom. It was enough to send the tiny hairs on the back of her neck on end.
Rainey was a skinny man, but the pants were still too big on her. As she buttoned up the soft blue shirt, she opened the closet door once more and searched for a belt. She kneeled on the cool wooden floor and reached for the box hidden under the mess of clothes. It felt forbidden, rooting through his personal things, but she was looking for a belt, right? She peered inside the box and pulled out the first thing that touched her fingers. A hat. It was a black hat with a round rim and was faintly smudged with dust. It looked like it belonged to a dairy farmer or some kind of Quaker. As she ran her fingers over it, she shuddered as a weird sensation settled over her. She was never one for superstitious nonsense, but the hat felt oddly evil.
Zoë grinned and placed it on her head, marveling at her new look in the bathroom mirror. It was a bold fashion statement, she mused, standing there in her underwear, Mort's large blue shirt, and a farmer hat. She wondered why Mort even owned a hat like that one.
"Howdy, m'am," she said in a thick southern drawl, tipping her hat at the mirror, "Well, I'm off to go milk ol' Bess." She snickered at her own foolishness.
There was a knock at the door. "Zoë?" Mort called, "Are you all right? I heard voices."
"I'm fine!" she called back, taking the hat off of her head in a flash, "I'll be down in a minute!"
There was no reply, so he must have headed back downstairs. She pulled on the brown pants and found a black belt. It helped some, but the pants were so baggy she felt swallowed by them. Finally, she cracked open the door and headed downstairs in bare feet, the mysterious hat still between her fingers. Zoë was going to ask him about it.
She found him on the couch, going through a manuscript of his. He was bent over, hovering over it on the coffee table next to the couch, casually biting his nail in thought as his eyes skimmed the white pages.
"Mort?"
He glanced up at her and grew rigid when he spotted the hat she was carrying. She took a seat next to him on the couch and said, "I don't mean to pry, but I found this in your closet, and...wow, it's a funny looking hat. Where did you get it?"
He swallowed hard and Zoë noticed he started to sweat. "Are you okay, Mr. Rainey? I'm sorry, I shouldn't be asking these things..."
"No," he said quietly, "It's fine. I found it at a garage sale a couple years back."
"Well how do you look in it?" she joked, "Dashing? Gallant?" She leaned over and attempted to place the hat on his head, but he suddenly jerked and jumped off of the couch, desperately trying to get away from her. She stared up at him, clearly startled.
"No," he said loudly, touching the side of his face, "You can't come back. Get the hell away."
"I'm sorry, I..."
"No, not you, Zoë. Not..." he paused and clenched his teeth together. "Shooter," he mumbled, "We've been through this. I can't...no more..."
"Mort," Zoë demanded, "What's going on?" He bunched his hands in his hair and whimpered. She got up and forced his hands down to his sides. "Shhh, its fine, calm down..." Zoë paused when his gaze met hers.
He whispered, "Run."
Mort reached over, plucked the black hat off of the couch, and placed it on his head. His whole demeanor changed. He stood tall and proud, a cocky smile graced his face, and his eyes became soulless. Now she was truly scared shitless.
"Mort? This isn't funny..." she said with a frown and backed away from him.
"Oh, Mort isn't here right now," he replied in a thick southern accent, "But I'll take care of him, missus. Don't you fret none. He just has a lot of thinkin' to do."
Her gun. Dammit, her gun was still upstairs on the bed. She slowly began to back up towards the stairs. But if she went upstairs, she'd be trapped with no way out of the house...
"Then who are you?" she asked calmly, touching the banister.
"The name's Shooter, m'am," he said with a tip of his hat, "And why, you are a purty lil' morsel. It's a shame you don't stop by more often. Our Mort's been thinkin' about you quite a lot."
"Well, that's nice of him." She took a step backwards and went up a step. He followed her, causing her to grow more anxious. She wanted to just turn around and run as fast as she could, but that might trigger his violent behavior. For now she would have to just take it easy...
"The thing is, pilgrim," 'Shooter' commented, "Is that you've been distractin' him, and I just can't have that." He shook his head violently. "No siree. I done tolds him to leave you alone but he just couldn't resist. Silly Mort, always disobeyin' me. Then I tolds him to get his share o' you then toss you aside. He couldn't have that either, missus. He just couldn't."
"Then, what does Mort want? What do you want...Shooter?"
"Mort needs you, darlin'. He can feel it in his gut and it makes a son o' a bitch like me sick. Now me..." Shooter grinned darkly, "Now Shooter wants to see you gone, honey. One way o' the other."
Zoë turned and ran. She could hear the sound of Mort's sneakers right on her tail, following close behind up the stairs. She tried to shut and lock the door, but he got a hand through the crack and pushed it open. She screamed and dove for her gun, but 'Shooter' knocked her over so she fell head over heels onto the floor. He was on top of her, holding her hands and pressing into her so she could barely breathe.
"Mort," she shouted, "Stop it!"
"I told you, pilgrim," he said emotionlessly, "He ain't here. But I'd be glad to take a message."
"Bastard," she seethed, "You shut the hell up and bring Mort back."
"Quite the big talker, Miz Oltie. Don't get your britches in a bunch, darlin'. I'll take care o' you." She screamed again when he backhanded her, sending her head reeling to the floor. He straddled her hips and let go of her arms. He placed his own hands around her throat and squeezed, grinning down at her all the while. She scratched the side of his face with her nails and he howled.
"You bitch!" he cried, touching the angry red welt starting to form. She bucked, throwing him off and she kicked him in the face with her foot. Zoë quickly stood up on wobbly legs and was about to reach for the gun but Shooter knocked it out of her reach.
"You've got a good weapon, pilgrim," he drawled, "But it's not polite to go around shootin' people, hmm?"
She stood there, as still as death itself, afraid to even breathe.
"You scare too easy, agent," he chuckled, "But I won't hurt you. Well, not yet anyways."
"What do you want from me?" she whispered.
"Nothing, missus. That's why I'm going to do ol' Mort a favor by givin' you a wake up call. I don't trust you. You'll just provide the noose for our hangin' if I don't intervene."
"Why would you think that?" she asked, staring at him.
"You think we don't know what you're doin'?" he laughed, "Catching you in our garden? Askin' those pesky questions? You want to see us locked up for good. Mort even knows that, but he won't listen to what I want. It's what would be good for both of us."
"Fine," Zoë said bravely, holding up her hands in mock defeat, "What do you think will be good for the both of you? My death? You think killing an FBI agent is going to make things all dandy? You'll get the death penalty, Shooter, even if you deserve it already. You can't escape the law."
"You don't know when to keep your mouth shut!" he growled, taking another step closer to her.
"Another step and you're done for," she warned, "Mort? Come on, Mort, I know you're in there some where!" Zoë was starting to sound a little desperate.
"You stupid woman!" 'Shooter' yelled, "I told you, Mort isn't..." he froze. His confident form slouched and he blinked a couple of times. The black hat dropped from his head and rolled across the floor.
"Mort?" Zoë questioned wearily, "Is it you?"
He swayed a little and met her stare. He was trembling, and his voice wavered as he answered, "Zoë? Holy shit..." The accent had vanished.
Mort ran over to her and pulled her into his arms. "Zoë..." he whispered, "Zoë, I'm so sorry..." She was unresponsive to his touch. She had never trusted him, but now that feeling of distrust had multiplied itself a billion times over.
"I need a cigarette," he breathed, laughing shakily before burying his face in her damp brown hair. She hesitantly wrapped her arms around him and patted his back in order to provide some kind of comfort.
"Smoking is bad for you," she stated.
"Zoë, I never meant...shit, I..."
"Mort," she said softly, "You have a lot of explaining to do."
"No," he shook his head wildly, "I can't..."
"For fucking sakes," she said angrily, pushing him away from her, "You just threatened me! And you called yourself Shooter!" She took a breath and said, "I want to know what's going on, Mort. There is something psychologically wrong with you."
He removed his glasses and rubbed at his eyes. "I know."
"So you won't talk?" she said. Narrowing her eyes at him, she reached for her wet pair of jeans and grabbed her cell phone out of the back pocket. "That's it," she muttered, "I'm calling my boss..."
Before she knew what was happening, he grabbed the phone from her hands and threw it. It smashed against the wall and rained down onto the floor in tiny pieces.
"You asshole!" she cried out. He glanced at her and began to walk downstairs. She gathered up her things, including her clothes and her gun, and followed him down.
"So you won't tell me anything?" she laughed hysterically, "Because that wasn't a bunch of fun upstairs just then, let me tell you. What do you have, a split personality? I have a right to know."
He opened the front door and motioned for her to leave. "Go," he said.
"Why, aren't you the polite one," she commented sarcastically. The rain had slowed up a bit. Zoë grumbled to herself and got out the keys to her car. "I will figure this out, Mort," she added, "Don't think I'm going to drop this case because I'm afraid of you."
"If you were wise, you'd stay as far away from me as you can," he replied harshly.
"Well I just can't do that," she said quietly, "It's my job."
He shook his head, his brown highlighted hair brushing against his face. "You don't understand, Ms. Oltie. I like you a lot. I...enjoy your company. But he doesn't. And I can't risk it. Don't you see? I can't!"
"Then fight it," she urged, "Don't let Shooter, whoever he is, win, do you understand me?"
His eyes filled with remorse as he suddenly grabbed her. He whispered, "Leave..." Before she could stop him, he pressed his lips to hers. It was soft, undemanding, light. He broke away before she could even blink. "...before it's too late."
She ran all the way to her car.
* * *
Zoë had changed out of Mort's clothes once she got home. They gave her the willies. She talked to T about what had happened and he was seriously considering reassigning her to another case. She talked him out of it, though, or at least succeeded in letting him give her a couple more days.
Curling up in her bed, she yawned and began to think of this 'Shooter' personality Mort possessed. While talking to Mort when he was like that, it was like she was talking to a totally different person. He needed help. Was she just making things worse like he said? Or was he pushing her away simply because she was too close to the truth? She giggled to herself. It was beginning to sound like an X-Files episode.
Pulling out the book "Everybody Drops the Dime", she set it on her bed and ran her fingers through her drying hair. Zoë had taken a shower to calm herself down and to get her in the right mind for some serious thinking. Mort Rainey had kissed her and that little fact was freaking her out beyond belief. Heck, she could handle being threatened, but KISSED? Much less by a murderer? The man who had bodies in his backyard that she was supposed to be digging up? 'Shooter' had told her that Mort thought about her a lot, that he cared. Switching over to another case didn't sound so bad after all, but she was never one to quit.
The night had calmed, the rain had disappeared. Wind streamed in through her opened window and she heard a fluttering noise. Looking up, she saw the pages of the book at the end of her bed flutter in the wind. She reached over and grabbed it, glancing at what page it had opened to.
Zoë blinked a couple times. Forget what page. It had opened to the beginning of 'Secret Window'. Maybe there were clues hidden in his short novel, metaphors that really weren't metaphors, similes that whispered secrets about his life, adjectives that described people he really had known. She began reading the first paragraph:
Todd Downey thought that a woman who would steal your love when your love was really all you had was not much of a woman. He therefore decided to kill her. He would do it in the deep corner formed where the house and the barn came together at an extreme angle--he would do it where his wife kept her garden.
Zoë paused and massaged the back of her neck. The woman who stole his love. Todd Downey. Killed her. In the garden. It was all too realistic, too exact to be coincidence. This was Mort Rainey's dark world written plainly out on paper.
And it was up to her to crack the code. Who was John Shooter? Four bodies, four graves. All in the garden? It was her job to find out.
She got up and grabbed a can of coke from the refridgerator, popping the top and taking a hearty swig before settling back down with the book. Yup.
It was going to be a long night.
* * *
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