I said Friday or Saturday, but I'm sadly in love with reviews, so I'm posting this now. I also know I said kick-ass epilogue, and now I honestly hope I didn't let you guys down. Hee. Thanks for reviewing, this was fun. :)
Oh, and because I forgot before, I don't own these characters except for Julia. So don't sue me, Wes Craven and Carl Ellsworth, because I have zero money.
Again, thanks to all who read and reviewed. You guys are awesome.
Epilogue
In the end, they said that fourteen bullets went into Jackson Rippner. It had only taken three to kill him.
She wasn't sure what had happened next, exactly. In the chaos that had followed, the police stormed the hotel, made several arrests and, as Lisa stood there, absolutely numb, someone put a blanket around her shoulders and ushered her out of the building. She was shaking all over, suddenly cold.
The doctors later said she'd been in shock.
She'd thought of those slasher flicks she used to watch as a teenager and how the murderer never died. He always came back a second time. It was the rule of bad horror films and she was absolutely positive he'd jump back up and pull at her ankle or something.
But there had been nothing. She was escorted right past him, vaguely aware that if she was any closer to the body the pool of blood that was thickening on the sidewalk would get on her nice shoes.
The police had kindly helped her into the ambulance and she had sat there, watching the horrific scene unfold around her. The last thing she remembered of that day was lightbulbs flashing around her, like lightning.
Lisa thought this as the judge called for a thirty minute recess. It was ten men on trial, an organization, with over a hundred witnesses. The trial had been a never-ending repetition of facts, what happened when. It was impossible to explain to a courtroom emotion. Regret. Fear. Depression.
Cynthia gently put her arm around Lisa's shoulders, and for the first time Lisa did not flinch at the touch. Without speaking, the two of them agreed to go outside and to sit on the rim of the small wall around a quaint garden. Courtrooms shouldn't be this beautiful. They were places of dragging up dark memories, of being unable to articulate anything of importance.
"You okay?" Cynthia asked, knowing the answer right away.
Lisa nodded. She lied all the time now. It was beyond the difference of ordering a Seabreeze or a Baybreeze; it was defending her against herself.
And then I found out he was seated next to me on the plane.
Did you think it was a coincidence, Ms. Reisert?
Yes, of course I did.
What did he say to you?
He asked me if I was stalking him.
Did he give any sign that he had a malicious intent?
No, not until we were completely in the air.
"What are you doing after this?" Cynthia asked, clutching the rim of the wall as if it was her only means of support.
Lisa whispered, "Witness Protection. New name, new town."
Cynthia nodded and Lisa wondered if she'd expected it. "Keep me posted, though, okay? I need to come visit you."
Lisa shook her head, knowing if she said anything she'd cry. She'd cried enough in the last year to last a lifetime. She wondered if tear glands could just turn into deserts. She wondered if the constant headaches, the constant desire to sleep, the paranoia, the needing to keep her light on at night, would ever go away. "You're the new hotel manager," Lisa said, at an attempt to keep everything light. She examined the ground in order to keep from making it obvious to Cynthia that she was crying. Someone had spilled Pepsi on the ground; a straw floated in the middle of it as if trying to make its way out of the murky mess it had found itself in.
What did he do when he found you writing the note to Mrs. Walkens?
He knocked me unconscious.
How long do you think you were out?
I'm really not sure. He told me when I woke up I'd been out for thirty minutes.
Do you think this is a fair estimate?
I really have no idea.
Do you think he did anything else while you were asleep?
I really have no idea-- I wasn't conscious.
So, what did he do next?
"Why did they keep asking me questions about Jackson?" Lisa asked, more to herself than to Cynthia.
"Because they want to get to the bottom of this," said the supportive friend. Cynthia had grown a lot in the last year or so. She'd had to. Especially in the last couple of weeks. She was very diplomatic about visiting Lisa-- coming over at night, soothing her before bed, being there if needed. If not, she'd make Lisa a cup of tea and let herself out quietly. "You want that, don't you?"
Lisa shrugged. She wasn't sure what she wanted anymore. To be alone. To be with someone else. To curl under the covers. To watch bad movies until her brain oozed out of her ears. To work. To relax. It was all so confusing. "Dad's making me see a psychiatrist. They keep coming over to see how I'm doing." She vaguely knew she wasn't making any sense. She just spouted whatever came to mind and no one ever bothered to correct her.
"What do they have to say?"
"They say I have post-traumatic stress disorder. It's because I can't sleep and when I do I sleep for long hours, and I have nightmares and flashbacks and I'm just so... numb." Except she wasn't numb; she hurt all over.
So then I told him I had to go to the bathroom.
He let you go?
Yes.
How long were you in there before he came in?
I don't know, probably about ten minutes.
Was that when you wrote the message on the mirror?
Yes.
Was he angry when he saw it?
Yes.
What did he do?
I don't remember.
You don't remember?
I'm having a hard time-- I'm sorry.
That's all right, Ms. Reisert. Take your time.
I'm really drawing a blank. Maybe if you ask me tomorrow I'll remember--
It's okay, just do the best you can.
I think he shoved me into the wall. Yeah. I think that happened.
Cynthia looked as if she wanted to say something, but didn't. Words just didn't work when your insides hurt worse than any physical scar you might have received. When you were worthless during court proceedings because your whole brain just wanted to shut down and forget everything. When your brain was so intent on shutting down you were having a hard time remembering exactly what Jackson looked like, even though he'd haunted your nightmares for over a year now. When he did make a cameo in your dreams, he turned into an actual monster. One night he killed your dad. One night he killed Cynthia. One night you woke up screaming because he killed you after telling you that he loved you.
"You want me to come over later tonight?" she finally asked.
Lisa nodded, and that was when her eyes turned into the Nile and emotion burst forth and her heart felt like it was falling down to where no one could reach. And it didn't feel good, the way she thought it was going to.
So you made the phone call?
Yeah.
And Cynthia moved the Keefes?
Yeah.
How did you feel?
I felt awful.
And then he told you that Keefe's family was with him?
Not directly. I figured that one out on my own.
And when the plane landed, that's when you stabbed him in the throat with a pen?
Yes.
Your father told us what happened in Miami. What did he do to you at the hotel a month ago? Ms. Reisert?We really need to know.
I'm sorry. I can't remember that, either.
Please try. There are no witness accounts of this, besides you.
I remember I got this scar. Actually, I got two.
How did you get them?
I don't remember.
It looks an awful lot like a knife wound.
Objection! The lawyer is making assumptions without the witness's consent.
Try to be more careful, in the future. Ms. Reisert, take your time, please. We have all day.
Thank you. May I take a break?
Court is adjourned for the next hour. We'll reconvene at 3:30.
"Ms. Reisert?" a man with a gentle voice said, breaking her out of her reverie of pain. "We're ready to reconvene. Hey, you gonna be all right?"
She tried to pull herself together, she really did. Lisa stopped crying and felt the numbness. Not being in pain made her feel better. She appreciated her body's futile efforts to build up a defense mechanism. "Yes," she lied again.
She listened to them drone on about murders and conspiracies and terrorist organizations and the death penalty, but nothing made any sense except for one fact-- Jackson was dead and the others were all about to die.
A large group escorted her out of the court building and Lisa didn't register anything. Someone shoved a microphone in her face and she couldn't be positive but she thought a perky blonde woman called her "A hero."
Cynthia drove them home. NPR was blaring from the car. Not only had her father borrowed her car again, but evidently the man was going deaf. It was becoming harder and harder for him to hear. "... and the men who took over the hotel just over a month ago are now in prison. Chances are, they'll face the death penalty. And now, more information on the hero of the story, Lisa Reisert. Lisa was born in San Antonio, Texas and later moved to Miami--"
Lisa wasn't sure what was coming out of her body, but it sounded like a laugh. Almost felt like one, too. "I wasn't born in Texas."
Cynthia grinned. "I seem to remember you telling me you were born in Miami."
"I've never moved anywhere in my life. Turn it off."
Her friend turned the radio off. "Well, Ms. Hero, if you're not careful you'll be joining the ranks of Harry Potter any day now."
"Remember when Rebecca hit him on the head with that really thick book?" Lisa said, allowing herself to chortle just a little.
"I think it stunned him a little."
"And you dumped water over his head and hit him with the glass vase."
"Shut up."
"You killed that batch of roses. Tom Schill bought 99 cent roses and you killed them."
Both of them giggled. "I did what I could."
There was an abrupt silence as Cynthia steered the car to Lisa's block. Her apartment loomed, ominous and still. A tree seemed to bow in the wind; it felt like a storm was coming.
"All right, missy. Here we are," Cynthia said, in an effort to keep her tone light. She turned off the ignition and both took the minute to catch their breaths.
I told you you shouldn't have offered to do this. You won't like it. You might say I was bullied into it, but you know what happened? I fell in love with you after the flight, Lisa. Isn't that weird?
The wind made a grinding noise against the car, as if groaning from the sudden memory.
"Let's go," Lisa said, trying to ignore the fact that every hair was standing on end. Cynthia let her run to the door and open it with trembling fingers. Part of it was the threat of a nasty storm looming; part of it was her fear of parking lots. They didn't stop to chat until Lisa fell into her armchair and kicked off her shoes. "I remember what happened now. In the office."
Cynthia busied herself, making a cup of tea. All Lisa had left was Irish Herb Tea and one package of Apple Cinnamon. She decided the apple cinnamon would smooth her, and besides it smelled better than the herb tea. "It's okay. You don't need to talk about it if you don't want to."
"I feel bad. I could have offered a better testimony if I'd remembered it earlier."
"You gave ten men life in jail, Lisa. Most of them will probably face the death penalty. You did what you could."
"It wasn't good enough."
"Shut up. You're tired. You're under a lot of stress right now." Cynthia waited for the water to warm and, at the helpful ding of the microwave, stuck the apple cinnamon tea bag into the water. Particles of tea mix escaped from the large bag and mixed around, making the water a murky reddish color.
The phone interrupted them, abrasively making itself known. Cynthia checked the caller I.D. "Your dad. Want to talk to him?"
Lisa nodded, not wanting to talk to anyone at the moment. Her father went on about her next meeting with the psychiatrist, how she was feeling, but she hardly registered anything, not even when Cynthia pressed the warm cup into her hands.
Cynthia turned on the Weather Channel, on mute, because Lisa couldn't bear to listen to smooth jazz of any kind. An advertisement for finding a Thanksgiving turkey came on and then they did the local forecast. They were under a severe thunderstorm warning for a few hours. Cynthia didn't dare leave Lisa all alone as the first rumbles were heard overhead.
Father and daughter hung up and Lisa held on to the phone as if it was her life support. With finality, she hung up the phone with a loud thud. The phone responded with a loud clang. "I hate phones," she said, hoping she didn't look and sound insane.
"We'll get better," Cynthia said, plopping down on the chair across from Lisa. She groaned. It had been a long day and her feet hurt. She felt her muscles relaxing. "It's hard now but we'll get better. That's the power of... I don't know. The power of healing. And I'm here to help, at least until... until--" and at this, she broke down. She couldn't bear to think her best friend in Miami would be moving away with a new name and address and would have to reestablish herself, all over again. Something about this seemed unfair.
The storm was about to let out its fury and the two women watched something mindless on T.V. Some sitcom, where the four main characters were bickering about who was supposed to take out the trash. Lisa even laughed when one of the characters fell into the trash can and screamed, legs kicking.
Next was a zombie movie, but it ended up being too scary and so they changed the channel again. Lisa fell asleep during a commercial break, right before the G.A.P. advertised with all their pastel colors to have happy holidays.
Cynthia let herself out quietly. Lisa snored from behind her as the rain stopped coming down. It would be a long year or so. Lisa was damaged and probably would be for a long time.
But they would get through it. This she knew for sure.