Chain Letter (23 page)

“I’m not listening. Everything you say is a lie. You don’t care about me.”

“I swear! I’ll kill you!”

“I know you will. You’re like Tony, just like him. Since last summer, he’s been killing
me.”

Divine vengeance
 . . .
all along, he’s been telling me.

At last, he thought he understood. He did not fool himself that he was a psychiatrist,
but he could see a pattern. Neil had sympathized with and related to the man to an
unheard of extent. Much of the Caretaker’s strange language in the chain
letter probably came from that unnatural identification. Plus Alison’s rejection of
him in favor of the person who had killed the man couldn’t have helped matters. Yet
it appeared that the main cause of the whole mess was very simple. Neil thought that
he had become sick because he had done a serious wrong, that the cancer was his just
punishment. As the disease had progressed and the pain had intensified, he had probably
begun to believe that if they confessed, particularly his best friend who had after
all been the main instigator of the crime, he would be healed. Of course the confession
would have to be to the police instead of to a priest, and it would have to be sincere.
That is why the Caretaker hadn’t just told them to turn themselves in. Repeatedly,
Neil had warned them that the chain letter’s only hold on them was their guilty conscience.
Maybe the accident
had
caused the disease. Who knew how much deep guilt could contribute to an illness?

So caught up was Tony in his analysis that he did not immediately respond to Alison’s
surrender. But when Neil set aside the gun and reached for the hypodermic, he decided
enough was enough. He was a bit late with the decision. He kicked open the door just
as the needle plunged into Alison’s calf.

Neil did not react like a sick man. One glance at his unexpected company and he was
on his feet, backing into the corner, dragging Alison by the throat. With her two
sets of handcuffs still in place, her arms stretched halfway to her feet, she was
a
clumsy burden. The syringe swung haphazardly out of her leg, the majority of its dosage
unadministered. The gun lay forgotten on the floor. Neil had no need for it. Tony
was surprised at the switchblade that suddenly materialized in Neil’s hand. There
was no question that the razor tip was sharp.

“Hello, Neil,” he said, keeping his distance. Neil had the knife pressed against Alison’s
neck. Her eyes were wide, but she was keeping very still.

“Hello,” Neil answered, uncertain.

“How ya doin’, Tony?” Kipp said. “I bet you’re glad to see me.”

Tony ventured a step forward, two steps. Neil poked Alison slightly and she stifled
a cry. He halted. “I read your secret message in the paper,” he said. “Can we talk
about it?”

“We have talked,” Neil said. “You love to talk.”

The room was claustrophobic, the walls seeming to press in from all sides. The tension
was so thick it was like a mountainous weight, smothering all external sounds. He
could hear his heartbeat, the anxious breathing of his friends, nothing else. The
rest of the world could have ceased to exist. “I’m willing to go to the police,” he
said honestly. “Let Alison go.”

“It’s too late for that.”

“It’s not too late. We’re still friends. No matter how you feel, you’re still one
of us.”

“I am not one of you!”
Neil shouted, his knife hand trembling. A pinprick of red appeared under Alison’s
chin, a thin streak of blood staining the collar of her sweater. She remained
silent. “I would never have done what you did. The man . . . ”

“Forget the man,” Tony interrupted, afraid Neil would slip into the Caretaker’s prattle.
He noticed Kipp’s fingers creeping toward the plug that juiced the room’s only lamp
and stopped him with a slashing hand signal. He took another step forward. “Let’s
talk about you, Neil, and about me. This is between us. You don’t want to hurt Alison.”

“I want to hurt you all!” Neil cried. “You hurt me! All of you with your M.I.T. scholarships,
your great paintings, your star performances, your big trophies! I wanted all of those
things! And I would have gotten them for myself! But none of you would give me the
chance!” His eyes flashed on Alison, who had her own eyes half closed. “You had to
kill me!”

The condemnation hit Tony like scalding steam. The switchblade was sharp, and an ounce
of pressure could spill Alison’s life over the floor. Nothing was more important than
to insure her safety. All the things Neil was talking about were already lost. Still,
Tony strove inside for the perfect response that would address both the past and the
present. It never came; instead, out of the corner of his eye, he noticed Fran. Pale
and frantic, she looked an unlikely hero, but the last couple of months had taught
him well how deceptive appearances could be. He turned away from Neil and Alison and
came and knelt by her side, pulling out the key chain he had taken from beside Neil’s
mattress downstairs. The first key he tried worked and Fran’s cuffs snapped open.

“Go get Ali,” he said gently, giving her the keys. “Don’t be afraid.”

“He’s . . . he’s sick?” she asked, unsure.

He nodded. “He’s been hurt. He’s been used. But never by you. He won’t hurt you.”

He helped her up—she was stiff from her captivity—and she composed herself admirably
and crept toward Neil and Alison. Neil’s anger changed to confusion.

“Stay back!” he said.

“She just wants Alison,” Tony called.

Neil shook his head desperately. “I won’t let go! I can’t let go!”

“Then hold me instead,” Fran said in her usual meek voice. Kipp went to laugh but
wisely cut it off. The offer was not funny; it was genuine, and it touched Neil like
nothing else they had said. Neil could hear things most people couldn’t; he was practically
a mind reader. Fran had always cared for him. She was not trying to manipulate him.
He could see that. And he seemed to see something else. A glazed film lifted from
his eyes. Fran held out her hand. As if in a trance, he took it and squeezed her fingers
around Alison’s hand, nodding in resignation. He lowered the knife and, using the
keys, Fran released Alison’s cuffs. But then neither of the girls moved, waiting for
Neil to decide. He did so a moment later, when he pushed them aside and leaned alone
against the wall, barely able to remain upright, the knife still in his hand.

His madness departed like a foul spirit, leaving an aching void. Another evil took
its place.

Suicide.

“Leave,” he whispered.

Tony moved closer. “I’m staying with you.”

“For how long?” he asked, unbearable torment twisting his mouth. “Till the end?” Tears
gushed over his wasted cheeks, his bloodshot eyes falling on the knife as it slowly
bent toward his heart. “This is the end.”

“But you did nothing wrong last summer,” Tony pleaded, approaching to within an arm’s
reach, feeling his own heart being cut in two. “And you haven’t actually hurt any
of the girls, or Kipp, or me. How can you punish yourself for a crime you didn’t commit?”

Neil’s ravished body quivered. He looked to each of them, into them, and love, the
old Neil, glimmered. But shame claimed it too soon, and the tip of the blade came
to rest on the soft flesh beneath his sunken ribs. Tony went to grab the knife, but
Neil raised his other hand, stopping him before he could try. “I’ve done enough,”
he said.

Tony shook his head, beginning to choke up. “You’ve done nothing wrong. Always, Neil,
always
, I thought you were the best of us. Don’t end it this way, please?”

Neil leaned his head back, his eyes falling shut, lifetimes of care etched in his
face. “The doctor didn’t say the word,” he whispered, “but I knew what it was, I had
read about it. When
I went to bed at night, when it was dark, I tried not to think about it. Then I began
to get sore, everything hurt, and I got scared. They gave me so many drugs, I was
sick all the time. I kept wondering and worrying and I tried, but this thing got in
my head and I couldn’t get rid of it. I don’t know where it came from. It was like
a voice, saying this is true and this is a lie. It wouldn’t shut up! I had to listen,
and I did listen, and then . . . I did all this.” He winced as though he had been
struck and his grip on the knife tightened. “I’m sorry, Tony, I just can’t take it.”

Then I will take it from you
, Tony thought. He could do that for his friend. He could kill him, and stop the pain.
Fortunately, it was an offer he wasn’t given a chance to make.

“Neil,” Alison said softly from the corner. Neil’s exhausted eyes opened slowly and
followed her as she ignored the knife and came close enough to touch him. “I gave
you back the gun because I really did want to be in your dreams.” She brushed a strand
of hair from his face. “Live a while longer, for me?”

Her concern, which hurt him, and saved him, was the final stroke. The switchblade
dropped from his hand onto the floor as he sagged against the wall, the last of his
strength departing. “Take me away, Tony,” he moaned, sobs convulsing his body. Tony
caught him as he fell, and cradled him in his arms.

“I’ll take care of him,” he told the others, and carried him out of the room.

I
t was a fine day to move into a new house. Although the sun was warm, the afternoon
continued to savor the morning’s freshness, the last traces of dew sparkling on the
recently planted lawns, cool air pockets clinging to the shade and fanning Alison
on each of her brief and repetitious treks from the moving van to the front door.
As Mr. Hague, her new neighbor, had said, “It’s the kind of day Adam and Eve probably
used to enjoy.”

Tony had reappeared this morning, looking fit and at ease, and she had been relieved.
He was presently helping Mr. Hague, a jolly middle-aged man with a huge pumpkin head
and an ingratiating laugh, maneuver an overstuffed refrigerator through a dieting
front door. Tony had already helped Mr. Hague with three quarters of the house. In
fact, had he not lent
a hand, Alison figured her new neighbor probably would have had trouble unloading
the drawers and cushions—which was OK, Mr. Hague was a most appreciative gentleman.
She was looking forward to meeting his family.

“Can I help?” she asked, holding a box of books, standing on the walkway in shorts,
the sun a sensual delight on the back of her bare legs, enjoying how Tony’s muscles
strained and bulged through his sweat-soaked green T-shirt—he was such a hunk.

“No,” Tony breathed, positioning his body against the overloaded dolly for a burst
of effort. “Ready, Mr. Hague?”

“What should I be doing?” Mr. Hague called back, hidden inside the house behind the
bulk of the icebox. Tony looked at her and winked.

“Just step back,” he said, and flexing his biceps and using a bit of he-man magic,
the refrigerator did a tiny hop and rolled into the entrance hall from where he was
able to easily wheel it into the kitchen. She followed on his heels, depositing her
burden on the couch they had earlier squeezed through the window. Tony unstrapped
the dolly belt and walked the appliance into the proper corner while Mr. Hague stood
idly nearby, shaking his head in awe.

“I’d like to say when I was your age,” Mr. Hague remarked, “I could have done that.
But I was more of a wimp then than I am now.” He laughed and picked up the loose electrical
cord. “But I suppose I can manage to plug this in.” He accomplished
the simple task and reached for his wallet. “Let me give you a little something for
saving me a couple of hernia operations.”

“You spared me my afternoon workout,” Tony said. “Let’s call it even.”

“Come, I insist, a few dollars.” Mr. Hague pulled out two twenties. “You can take
Alison to dinner.”

She smiled. “But I’m on a diet.”

“How about when I have to move,” Tony said. “I get to call you?”

Mr. Hague scratched his big head, thought about that for a moment, and decided that
that sounded fair. The heavy articles were all unloaded, and the three of them shared
a pitcher of lemonade before Mr. Hague walked them to the door. Standing half inside,
half outside, Alison glanced at the stucco ceiling. Not far from the entrance, there
was a sloppy patch job—her second missed shot. Mr. Hague noticed her attention.

“The realtor told me the contractor’s spray gun went on the blink,” he said. “They’ll
be out soon to smooth out the spot.”

She could understand why a salesman wouldn’t have been wild about telling a client
that their brand-new home had been shot at. “Nothing like a gun on the blink,” she
said, and Tony looked at the floor.

Mr. Hague thanked them profusely for a couple of minutes before letting them go. She
had not had a chance to talk to Tony before he had started in on the furniture and
she was anxious to get him alone. But as they walked down the driveway,
they were stopped by a swiftly decelerating Camaro. A straw blonde with an excited
face and a skimpy top bounded out the door. All of about sixteen chewing gum years
old, she wasted no time raking Tony over with her dizzy blue eyes.

“Hiya!” She stuck out her hand. “I’m Kathy, your new neighbor!”

Tony shook her hand—Kathy had obviously been hoping he was a local boy—and introduced
the two of them, adding quietly, “Alison is actually your neighbor. I’m from the other
side of town.”

Kathy let her disappointment show briefly, then turned and took in the empty street.
She threw her hands in the air. “Lord, this place looks dull!” She popped her gum.
“When are all the other people moving in?”

Alison hugged Tony’s arm, noticing all of a sudden the faraway look in his eyes. “Soon,”
she said.

“Then again,” Kathy mused, taking a different slant on things, “it’s kind of neat,
kind of spooky having all these empty houses to ourselves, huh?”

Alison pointed at the bedroom that overlooked the garage. “Is that going to be your
room?”