Michael Palmer - Flashback

As she strhightened out the bookshelves and polished the already glistening clock on the mantel, Barbara mentally ticked through the meal she had planned and the music she would choose. Perhaps after dessert and coffee, if she could nudge someone into a request, she might even play for them herself. It had been so long since she had allowed herself the luxury of such mundane thoughts. "Toby, " she ventured, "how would you like to help me put together the dinner we're going to make for Billy's mom and dad tonight?"

Toby continued to flip through his book, occasionally reaching out to run his fingertips over one of the planes. "Okay, " she said cheerfully.

"Suit yourself. Just let me know if you get bored with your book. I'll be right in the kitchen."

It had been worth a try. Minutes later, as Barbara stood by the sink washing vegetables, she heard a soft noise behind her. Suddenly tense, she whirled. Toby was standing by the kitchen door, the corners of his mouth crinkled upward in something of a smile. Barbara felt a surge of excitement. "Hi, " she said, swallowing against the forceful beating of her heart. "Want a job?"

The boy hesitated And then, ever so slightly, he nodded. "Great! … I mean, that's fine, honey. I could really use the help. Here, let me get your little stool."

She put the wooden stool by the sink and handed Toby the peeler. "Okay,

" she said. "Now all you have to do is scrape this over the carrots until they all look like this one, see?… That's it. Perfect. Listen, I'm going to the laundry room to fold some clothes. When you finish with the carrots, I'll get you started on the potatoes."

Normal. Barbara had never dreamed she would cherish the feeling so much.

As she headed toward the laundry room she glanced at the wall clock.

"Hey, To be, " she said, returning to the kitchen, "guess what it's time for."

She snapped on the twelve-inch black-and-white set that she kept on the counter to watch soap operas. The cartoon intro for Robin the Good was just ending. Toby stood on his stool, scraping the carrots, washing them in the cool, running water, thinking about airplanes, and looking over from time to time at Robin and his men. "Now, maids and men, " Friar Tuck was saying, "it's time to learn about our Letter of the Day. Today, it's a very special letter, because it's the only one that always has the same letter come after it. It's the letter that starts the words quick and quail and quart. Can you guess what it is? "Q, " Toby said absently. "How many said QT' the friar asked. "Well, if you did say Q, you're right! So now, without further ado, here's Robin and Alan to sing about what letter? Right, our good friend, Q."

Alan-a-Dale strummed his huge guitar several times. Then Robin the Good leapt onto a giant rock and, hands on hips, began to sing. "Alas, my lo-over, you do me wro-ong, I do not thi-ink that thou art true. For thou has ye-et to sing a so-ong, about-out the lee-ter Q-oo… With the first few notes of music, Toby stopped his scraping and began staring at the tiled wall. The peeler slipped from his fingers and clanked into the steel sink. He rubbed at his eyes as the blue and gray tiles grew brighter. It was beginning to happen. Just like all the other times, it was beginning to happen. "Mommy… He called out the word, but heard no sound. They were coming for him. The nurse and the man with the mask.

They were coming for him again. "Mommy, please…"

His eyes drifted downward toward the sink, toward the splashing water.

Stop them! his mind urged. Don't let them touch you again. His hand closed about the black handle of a knife that lay beside the peeler.

Stop them! As he lifted the knife, sunlight flashed off its broad, wet blade. Over the half year since her son's attacks first began, Barbara Nelms had developed a sixth sense about them. It was as if something in the air changed-the electricity or the ions. There had been false alarms times when she had raced through the house, terrified, only to find Toby sitting in the bay window and staring out at the lawn, or lying in the den, mechanically watching a show that held absolutely no interest for him. But there were other times, especially of late, when she had found him thrashing wildly on the floor, or pressed into a corner, his frail body cringing from the recurring horror that was engulfing him from within. Barbara was folding the last of the linen when she began to sense trouble. It started as no more than a tic in her mind-a notion.

The house was too quiet, the air too still. Like a deer suddenly alert to the hum of an engine still too distant for any man to hear, she cocked her head to one side and listened. All she could hear was the soft splash of water in the sink and the sound of the television. Robin the Good was singing his alphabet song-a series of absurd, ill-rhymed tributes to each letter, sung to the tune of "Greensleeves." It was a melody Barbara had actually loved before encountering the portly actor's version. Now, it grated like new chalk. "Toby?…" she called out.

"Toby, can you hear me?

" There was no answer. "Toby, honey?…" She set aside the sheet she had been about to fold and took a tentative step toward the door. Then she began to run. She bolted through the deserted kitchen and was halfway to the living room when she heard the crash of a lamp and her son's terrified scream. "Noooo! Don't touch me! Don't touch me! " he howled. "If you touch me there, I'll cut you. I will… Stop it! Stop it!"

Toby was backing toward the far end of the living room, thrashing his arms furiously at assailants only he could see. It took several seconds for Barbara Nelms to realize that he was wielding a knife-a carving knife with an eight-inch blade. Then she saw the blood. Inadvertently, Toby had cut himself-a wide slash on the front of his thigh, just below his shorts. Crimson was flowing down his leg from the wound, but he was totally heedless of it. "Toby!"

Barbara raced toward him, then slowed a step as his wild-eyed fury intensified. "Stay away from me! Don't touch me!"

"Toby, please. It's Mommy. Please give me that knife."

He backed into the hallway, still slashing at the air. His lips were stretched apart, his teeth bared in a frightening, snarling rictus.

There was no sign that he recognized her. His flailing sent a pair of framed photographs spinning from the wall. The glass exploded at her feet. "Toby, please."

All Barbara Nelms could see now was the blood, cascading down her son's leg and over his foot, leaving grotesque crimson smears on the carpet.

He was nearing the bathroom. If he reached it and locked himself inside … There was simply no way she could let him do that. The hallway was too narrow for any kind of attack from the side. Focusing as best she could on the knife, which Toby was slashing in wild, choppy arcs, Barbara ducked against the wall and dove at him. The point of the blade flashed down, catching her just at the tip of her shoulder and tearing through her flesh and the muscle of her arm. Shocked by the viciousness of the pain, she dropped to her knees, clutching the wound with one hand and trying to hold onto Toby's T-shirt with the other. Blood gushed from between her fingers. Again, the eight-inch blade slashed down.

Reflexively, she pulled away her arm. The glancing blow sliced another gash in the skin by her elbow. Before she could recover, Toby had spun away from her and lurched into the bathroom. "Toby, no! " she screamed as the door slammed shut and the lock clicked. Woozily, she got to her knees and pounded on the door. "Toby, open up! Open up, please! It's Mommy." The only response was the shattering of glass against tile.

Through a sticky trail of her own blood, Barbara Nelms crawled to her bedroom and dialed 911. "This is Barbara Nelms, 310 Ridgeview, " she panted. "My eight year-old son has locked himself in the bathroom. He has a knife and he's already cut himself. Please, please send help."