Synopsis: Willie is in the wrong place at the wrong time, hears the wrong thing, and draws the wrong conclusion, leading to the wrong outcome. Just like Romeo and Juliet. Only different.


Willie's second AA meeting was even more boring than the first, mostly because they did pretty much the same stuff. He wasn't sure if the cookies were worth it, even if they were the kind from the baker shop. It was worth it, though, to get out of the Old House once a week, away from Dr. Hoffman's nosy questions and Barnabas bellowing his name throughout the house.

So Willie dutifully endured yet another hour of drunk stories. He particularly paid attention to the young lady who would habitually wake up in strange men's beds. It was a shame she was sober now. He was fortunate that night to snag a seat on the sofa next to an end table since it was difficult to balance his coffee and numerous cookies without spilling or getting crumbs down his arm cast. His plaster prison was itchy enough as it was.

All this talk about booze just made Willie think more about the drink he was going to enjoy on his way home, and he hit the door the moment the Serenity Prayer was over.

Buzz Hackett wasn't at the Blue Whale that night, and neither was Harry. Not that Willie had much to say to Mr. Johnson, he was just looking for a familiar face. It would have been nice to discuss some of his newly discovered literature with Buzz, and maybe show the young scholar that he wasn't a complete idiot.

Willie sat at the end of the bar, ordered rum and listened as a crazy old boozer bent his ear about how Jimmy Carter had ruined the economy and the morals of our nation. The topic held no interest for the servant, and he had no opinion on the subject. Willie had only a vague idea of who he was talking about, and had never seen the inside of a voting booth.

"Just one more! Just one more!" The sound of chanting was heard from the other end of the bar. Willie looked up to see Sam Evans pounding his shot glass on the counter and Sheriff Patterson, trying to subdue his friend.

There's a guy who should be in AA, thought Willie. The sheriff conceded the artist could, in fact, have one more round before going home. It seemed that Mr. Evans always had a buzz on or was rip-roaring drunk, as was the case at present.

Well, maybe he drinks 'cause he's sad. His daughter was kidnapped, and now she's in a rubber room with no memory.

"But it'll soon be over now, eh George? You'll see. It wasn't a mistake to bring her home. Every day she remem—"

"Sam!" Patterson interrupted, then continued in a whisper. "What's the matter with you? Keep your voice down."

"Sounds like you have a lead in the kidnapping case," the bartender interjected. "Think you'll catch the guy?"

"I'm afraid not, Bob," the sheriff quickly replied. "It's just Sam, he's still torn up about it all; you know how he gets."

Mr. Evans, in his bereavement, had migrated to the dance floor.

"Cel-e-brate good times, come on! . . .
There's a party going on right here . . .
Cel-e-bra-tion

Pretty soon, we're going to have something to celebrate, right, my man?"

"Alright, that's it for you." The sheriff helped his inebriated friend into his coat. "Say goodnight, Sam."

"Goodnight, Sam!" the artist replied as Patterson led him out the door. "Which way did they go, George? Which way did they go?"

Willie threw back his drink in one gulp, gagged on it, and sat in stunned silence. The old geezer at his side continued to jabber, but his companion heard nothing of what was said.

Maggie was home, not in the hospital. Dr. Hoffman had said she hypnotized the young woman so she wouldn't remember the ordeal she had suffered at the vampire's hands, but it didn't work! If Maggie remembered being held prisoner at the Old House, everything was royally fucked. Willie threw a dollar on the counter and ran out of the bar.

He sat behind the driver's wheel of his white pickup truck. The young man had precious little experience making decisions that involved ethics or moral conscience. But what he did know was this: He was bound by blood to protect his master, and that meant Willie had to warn him of the impending disaster. On the other hand, to do so would endanger the life of the woman he loved, because if her memory returned, Barnabas would have to kill her to protect his identity.

Willie closed his eyes and in his mind entered the corridor that connected himself and his master. He heard heated voices and looked in Barnabas' door to see Dr. Hoffman and the vampire quarreling in the parlor. Barnabas already knew. Of course he did, this mind-reading game was a two-way street. The monster was panicking, pacing the room in a fury, his doctor following with soothing tones in an effort to placate.

You failed me, doctor. Maggie Evans will now pay for your blundering with her life.

Willie could not clearly hear the doctor's response, but she seemed to be telling him it was impossible for the girl's memory to return. It had to be a trick—a trap to lure the kidnapper out into the open, but the vampire could not afford to take that chance and would not be dissuaded.

Willie opened his eyes and stared at the snow-filled street through the windshield. He had already suffered through the thought of Maggie's death once. After discovering that she was alive, there was no possible way he could do it again. But he could not prevent Barnabas from killing the young woman, if that was his intention, nor did Willie think he could talk him out of it.

God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change,
The courage to change the things I can,
And the wisdom to know the difference.

He started the truck and drove to the Evans' cottage. Willie parked a block away and bolted to the house. Somebody was awake upstairs.

What light through yonder window breaks?

He considered a strategy for climbing up to Maggie's balcony, not to proclaim his love but to give warning, to save her life. His Juliet would not suffer an untimely demise.

The orchard walls are high and hard to climb
and the place death, considering who thou art
if any kinsmen find thee here.

Was that Barnabas talking in his mind, or was he just paraphrasing the master's recitations? Willie looked around the still blackness. No kinsmen in sight.

I got night's cloak to hide me from their eyes.

The vampire, however, was another matter. For him, darkness was an asset, not a hindrance. And if he already knew Willie was there, there was no time to lose. He grabbed hold of the rose trellis, devoid of flora at this time of year, and started to climb. In a moment, however, the young man was back on the ground.

The damn arm cast prevented him from getting an effective grip. That's it! He had had enough of that stupid thing getting in his way for weeks now, and started yanking ferociously at the protective gauze underlayer until the surrounding plaster started to crack. Encouraged, he tugged and ripped until the shell was forced apart and fell to pieces on the ground. What remained was a crumbling bracelet on his forearm. Willie briefly regarded his newly freed limb; it looked skinny and white in the pale moonlight, like a bone. He wiggled his fingers, though, and they seemed to work fine.

With love's light wings did I climb up these walls, something like that,
for stony limits cannot hold love out,
—and I hope you don't got a burglar alarm.

Again he began to ascend the lattice framework, blocking Barnabas from his thoughts as best he could. Later, he would tell the vampire that he quoted Shakespeare and that he understood what all the words meant.

"Maggie?" he whispered, tapping on the French doors to her bedroom. "Maggie?" There was no answer but he found the door was unlocked. As he lifted the latch a gust of wind blew both doors wide open with a resounding clatter. Inside the room sat Maggie Evans in a sturdy upright chair facing the balcony entrance, a steely expression on her face and Sam's hunting rifle in her hands.

She fired at point blank range, hitting Willie in the shoulder. The young man clutched at the wound as blood seeped through his fingers. He stared at her in confusion. "Maggie, no, you don't—"

She focused her gaze down the barrel of her weapon, methodically aiming her next shot with more care. It shattered his clavicle, and the intruder grasped at the door frame for support. The third ripped open his chest and tore his heart asunder, its momentum propelling Willie back onto the balcony. The fourth shot sent him backwards over the rail where he landed on the cement patio. The fifth and sixth shots fired into the air.

Willie remained conscious on the ground for almost a minute as a pool of blood spread like a crimson blanket in the snow beneath his head. Even after everything went white, he heard the approaching sirens, until they too faded to nothing.