These guys don't belong to me. Just borrowing them for a while yadda yadda yadda.
Many thanks to Miss Becky, beta reader and chief source of encouragement. And thanks to all you folks who are reading this, and especially the ones who are commenting!
Secrets
by Melody Wilde
Part 7
"Mort? Mort!"
I'm crazy. I really am crazy. I remember it all now. Oh god, I remember everything. I did kill Amy and Ted, just like Dave said I did, killed them with a shovel and then used that very same shovel to bury them in the garden and planted corn over their graves and smiled while I ate it. It was me. I did it all on my own. Not Shooter—me. There is no Shooter. Just crazy ol' Mort Rainey.
"Talk to me. Please?"
Oh and I forgot...well of course I forgot, that's the whole point, isn't it. What about Tom Greenleaf and Ken Karsch and, last but not least, poor old Chico. Pain in the ass blind bastard piddling on the front porch Chico. I killed them too—killed them all. Shovel, hatchet, screwdriver, whatever it took. And I don't even know why I killed them.
And now we have to ask the musical question...how did I do something like that and not remember it? How did I get so fucked up that I forgot—forgot—murdering four people?
"Mort, tell me what is wrong."
Wrong? Why nothing's wrong. Nothing at all. I've just realized I'm a murderer and I'm bugfuck crazy, but other than that life is peachy keen. Couldn't be better.
"Is it...the things that I did to you?"
That made him laugh even harder. Ah Miguelito, my friend, that's nothing. Not compared to multiple murders. Shooter was right. I deserved what you did to me. Deserved worse. Only...oops...Shooter's not real. But it doesn't matter. He was right anyway.
The small part of his mind that was still rational was aware that his laughter was spiraling upward, becoming more and more out of control, but he was powerless to stop it. Uh oh, getting hysterical here, folks. Step right up, come one, come all. Free admission. The mind is snapping—watch it go! Watch the famous writer turn into one of his own characters!
"Mort, you need to swallow this."
Somehow Bain had managed to drag his arms above his head and tie his wrists to the metal railings of the headboard, immobilizing him. To keep me from hurting myself? Or maybe for something else, hmmm? Maybe he's been thinking about it and decided he wants another round. Another roll in the hay with crazy ol' Mort. Careful. Insanity may be contagious. He twisted, trying to free himself, and giggled some more. Go ahead. It doesn't matter. Nothing matters. Let him fuck me again. This is just a little bitty preview of what's to come. Jailhouse rock. After what I did, they'll put me away for...oh...about a zillion years. I'll wind up in a cell with some guy named Big Tiny, being his bitch until he gets tired of me and sells me for a pack of cigarettes. Oh, Miguel, I'll be thinking back on what you did to me as one of the best times of my life.
Something was being forced between his lips and he tasted the chalky texture of a pill. More drugs. No. Not going to do it this time, not taking your drugs, not going to let you drug me again. I'm going to fight you. Why not? For all I know, you're not real. Maybe I just imagined you too, imagined all this. I don't know why I'd imagine somebody who'd hurt me as much as you did, but hey...nothing else is making sense right now. Maybe you're just my subconscious punishing me for killing...killing...oh my fucking god...I killed Amy...
His mouth was full of water and hands were on his face, one holding his nostrils shut, the other covering his mouth. He fought, but he'd been too sick...still too weak...and it hurts...and I can't breathe...have to swallow...oh fuck...
"Good, good."
The hands released his face and he sucked in a great gulp of air, only to release it in another burst of laughter.
"Shhh, be calm now."
"Don't...don't you see..." His eyes wouldn't quite focus on the man kneeling beside him, trying to soothe him. "Oh...I forgot...you didn't see..." That sent him off into more giggles.
"See what, my friend?"
"Shooter. You didn't see him. Because he wasn't real...he isn't real...he's never been real. It was all...it was..."
Whatever drug Bain had forced down his throat began to kick in at that moment, and the hint of his sanity that remained gave a groan of relief. Fast acting. Thank god. Get me out of here. Calgon, take me away...
x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x
He remembered it all. He remembered everything.
The satisfying crunch of the shovel against Ted's face. The shock of the impact running up the handle. The distant sound of Amy's weeping as he shifted his weight and tightened his grip, lifted, brought the shovel down hard, right on target, then again.
Amy's voice at his feet, trying to tell him he was Mort Rainey, when he knew better. Mort Rainey was dead, as dead as Ted Milner, just not as messy a corpse. More work for the shovel, and then more, out beneath the secret window, out in what would become his cornfield.
Mort huddled in the center of the room, arms wrapped around his bowed head, as if that would keep away the terrible images that were flooding back. Ted, his head almost severed from his body. Amy, his pretty little wife, only not any more, blood bright on her golden hair and golden skin. Tom, who never hurt a soul in his life, staring sightlessly ahead with a screwdriver jammed into his temple. Ken, sprawled in the back seat, covered with blood. Chico...
No. He couldn't remember killing Chico, only the sight of the dog's lifeless body—the rage he'd felt at the senselessness of the act. Chico's death was somehow worse than all the others. He was just an innocent animal, whose only crime had been that Amy still loved him when she didn't love Mort anymore.
"It's all comin' back now, ain't it, Mr. Rainey?" Shooter leaned against the wall in front of him, cigarette dangling from his fingers, nodding. "You like what you're seein'?"
"I thought you were gone. Through with me." The smug look on the man's face gave him courage, strength. He lowered his arms, began to uncurl his body. "Haven't you done enough? What else do you want?"
"Why, I want to watch you remember. And I want to watch you pay and know what you're payin' for this time." He took a deep drag of the cigarette, let the smoke trickle out his nose. "It was fun seein' Bain have you, but I think this is gonna be more fun."
"What are you talking about?" Mort was on his feet now, fists clenched.
"What do you think, Morty-boy?"
A hand fell on his shoulder, and he spun to look into the grinning face of his rival, his victim, Ted Milner. The fingers tightened with an unnatural strength, and he cried out.
"Retribution. Revenge. Payback." Ken was behind him, close, too close. "I took care of you, Mort. I saved your butt when you got involved with that crazy fan. I was trying to save you this time. You might've had a beef with Milner here, but why the hell did you kill me?"
"Because...because...I don't know...I don't remember why..."
"You'd better start thinking, babe." Amy, to his left, her gentle eyes hard, mouth compressed in an angry line.
"Amy, I..." He was starting to feel tendrils of panic gripping his stomach, spreading through his body, even before Tom Greenleaf appeared, bloody screwdriver clutched in his hand.
"I thought we were friends," he said accusingly. "I didn't have anything to do with any of this mess. I was just driving by. You didn't have any reason to kill me. Do you know what it feels like to have somebody shove a screwdriver into your head?"
"Tom..."
"It feels like this."
Tom's arm flashed up. The others crowded him, keeping him from moving as the metal drove through his temple, through flesh and bone and into his brain. He screamed with the pain. It should've killed him—killed him instantly—but it didn't. It just hurt...and hurt...and hurt...
They all stepped back and let him fall. He hit the floor hard, jarring his head. He opened his mouth to scream again then realized he'd never stopped. The sounds coming from him were inhuman, a wail that rose and fell and paused only when he had to suck in more air.
"Mort. This too."
He saw the hatchet coming down, felt it slice into his chest, ripping him open. He'd thought nothing could hurt worse, but this did. He'd thought he couldn't scream any louder, but he did. There was blood everywhere, splattering over the floor, staining the shoes of the specters surrounding him, covering his clothing.
Oh god, why can't I die?
He didn't realize he'd spoken the words—or maybe he hadn't—but Ted leaned forward, a shovel in his hand. "Because we're not through with you. This is all the satisfaction we'll ever have from you, and we're going to take every fucking minute of it, asshole."
The shovel-end against his face should've knocked him unconscious with the first strike, but he knew better than to expect that now. His head jerked back and forth with the force of the blows. He couldn't even pass out. He wasn't surprised to look up and see that Amy had taken over shovel duty, wielding the weapon with as much force as her lover.
"I think that's about enough."
They moved back to allow Shooter to join their circle, awarding him a place of honor. Shooter looked down at him and shook his head. "You purely are a mess now, Mr. Rainey. Even worse than when your friend got done with you."
"You're not real...this isn't real...leave me alone..." Mort tried to roll away from them, but Shooter stopped him, nudging the toe of his boot against Mort's ribs.
"I think we c'n do just that."
The pain and the wetness of blood on his clothing were gone. He was in another room, a small room with padding on the walls and a door with a tiny barred window on one side. "Oh shit," he murmured. "I'm in a nuthouse."
"Well, where else would they put a crazy man?"
He could hear Shooter's voice, but not see the man. "Shooter! Shooter, you son of a bitch! Get me out of here!"
"Oh, I don't think so. Not just yet."
Mort heard the sound of a key turning, and the door opened to admit two burly men in white uniforms. The one in front glanced back at the other. "He's yelling for 'Shooter' again."
The second one shut the door, then pulled a partition across the window. "You know, I read every one of his books. It's a shame to see him like this."
"Yeah. Bad for him. Good for us."
Mort began to back away. "What's going on here?"
"Nothing new, Mort." He advanced, hands outstretched. "You know the drill. Don't fight us now."
The second man was unbuttoning his pants. Mort's eyes went wide. "What do you think you're doing?" But he knew the answer. "You can't... I'll scream."
He tried to dodge, but the room was too small. He was shoved against a wall, immobilized by the man's superior strength, then wrestled to the floor.
"You go right ahead. Everybody screams here. And you know how Jim likes it when you scream for him."
He struggled helplessly. "I'll tell somebody," he panted. "They'll..."
"Don't you get tired of going through this every time? You always tell. And they never believe you. After all, who are they going to believe—a nutcase who killed four people or his good and kind male nurses?"
In the endless time that followed, Mort could barely hear his own cries over their laughter—Shooter, Ted, Ken, Tom...even Amy. Even Amy.
He had no idea how long he lay there afterward before he heard the footsteps and saw the ends of Shooter's boots stop before his face.
"How you likin' your little visit to the nuthouse, Mr. Rainey?"
"I'm having a nightmare. It isn't like this. They don't...it couldn't happen. This isn't real."
"Maybe it ain't no more real than I was, but it still hurts, don't it?"
Mort refused to give him the satisfaction of an answer.
"'Course, maybe you won't wind up in a nice place like this. Maybe they'll send you straight to jail."
A dizzying sensation of falling, and then he was in yet another room, this one tiled and antiseptic, showerheads pouring steaming clouds of water down on the occupants. They were standing in a half-circle, staring at him. And he was naked.
"Shooter, you bastard..."
With a laugh, Shooter dragged him to his feet and pushed him forward into the waiting crowd.
They grabbed him, spinning him from man to man, touching, groping, calling promises of the things they were going to do to him. He tried to fight, but there were so many of them. Too many.
"Let him go."
The words were spoken quietly, but they cut through the jeers and the threats, silencing them. The man holding Mort released him, letting him drop to the floor.
"Now leave."
Mort forced his head up, squinting to try to learn the identity of his rescuer, but there were bodies in the way. He couldn't see.
"Who the fuck do you think you are, telling us what to do?" One of the men broke away from the group and strode forward. "What..."
A flurry of movement. A sharp sound like a twig snapping, then an unearthly shriek of pain. The other prisoners began to shift, retreating, as Mort's savior advanced upon them, dark, deadly, eyes blazing.
"Bain." His mind struggled to process Bain's presence in this hellish nightmare. "What..."
"Be still, Mort Rainey. I will take care of you." Bain was standing over him, protecting him, fists clenched, head turning to glare at each man in turn. They began to fade away, one by one, until only a man in dark clothing and a wide-brimmed hat was left.
"Well, now, this is a turn I surely didn't 'spect," Shooter drawled.
"You will leave him alone now. He belongs to me."
Shooter nodded slowly. "If'n you say so, Mr. Bain. You c'n have him for now. But we ain't done with this yet. Not by a long shot." He touched the brim of his hat. "No sirree, not by a long shot."
Bain took a step toward Shooter...and then they were both gone.
x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x
Mort's eyes snapped open. He was in bed, curled around a pillow that was damp beneath his cheek, as if he'd been crying. It was dark. And he was alone.
He lay very still, not daring to move. I'm safe. No Shooter. There's nobody else here.
Panic was rising from his stomach, a scream trembling on his lips. There's nobody else here. Where's Bain? Did he leave...or did I dream him too? Did I dream everything? What's happening to me? Is this real or just more of the dream? Is anything real? Oh god...
He closed his eyes tightly and hugged the pillow and began to sob with fear.