Cody McFadyen - The Face of Death

Her mother had quieted down then. Sarah had tried to look at her daddy, but his eyes were closed.

"I'm going to give you a few moments to collect yourself. A full minute. After that, you'll either tell me that you're ready, and we will move forward, or I will put the torch to Sarah in earnest ."

Sarah quivered in fear at the thought of more fire, more pain. And what did he mean by "moving forward"? She'd been in her far-away place, waiting for the monsters to go away. He'd talked during that time, said something important. She strained to remember. Something about Mommy and Daddy . . .

Mommy killing Daddy . . .

She remembered, and her eyes opened wide, and the far-away place beckoned once more.

Linda struggled to get herself under control. She was full of white noise and static, one big short-circuit of the soul. Rage had taken over. She hadn't been able to hold it back. She'd seen red and the anger and futility had marched in, banishing what little equilibrium she'd had left. Her wrists ached, and she felt over-oxygenated and sick to her stomach from the adrenaline rush.

Sam, damn Sam, still had his eyes closed. She knew why, and she hated him for it. Hated him for being right. For knowing it was over, knowing there weren't any other choices, and for accepting that. No, no, she loved Sam, she didn't hate him. This was him, who he was. His mind was one of the things she loved most about him. His clarity, his brilliance. He was being so courageous right now. He'd said good-bye, closed his eyes, and left his neck exposed, ready for her strangling hands.

WWSD?

The saying had jumped into her mind: What Would Sam Do?

It was a mantra that she used when her emotions battled with her common sense. Sam was calm, Sam was logical, Sam was steady-asshe-goes. Capable of rage when it mattered, but able to let the small things go with a shrug.

When someone cut her off on the freeway and she started swearing out loud at them in front of Sarah, she'd take a breath and ask: WWSD? What Would Sam Do?

It didn't always work, but it had woven itself into the fabric of her, and it appeared now at the time when she most needed it. Sam would weigh the facts. Linda took a deep breath, closed her eyes.

Fact: We can't escape. He's handcuffed us, the cuffs aren't budging. We're trapped. Fact: He can't be bargained with.

Fact: He's going to kill us.

These last two facts were facts. The Stranger's calm resoluteness, the workmanlike way in which he did everything, including burning Sarah's hand, left no doubt about what he was and what he would do. He'd do what he said.

But will he spare Sarah if we do what he asks?

Fact: We can't know for sure that he will.

Fact: We can't know for sure that he won't.

It all led to what had caused Sam to close his eyes: this leads to this leads to that, and the sum is always the same.

Fact: The possibility that he will spare her is all that's left. The only thing we might still be able to control.

She opened her eyes. The Stranger was watching her.

"Have you made your decision?" he asked.

She blinked once for yes. He removed the tape over her mouth.

"I'll do it," she said.

That hint of excitement again, a ghost that appeared and disappeared in his eyes.

"Excellent," he said. "I'm going to re-cuff Sam's hands behind his back first."

He did this in quick, practiced motions. Sam kept his eyes closed and didn't resist.

"Now, Linda, I'm going to remove the handcuffs from your wrists. You could decide to have another one of your 'moments.' " He shook his head. "Don't. It won't get you anywhere, and I'll burn Sarah's left hand until it's a melted lump. Do you understand?"

"Yes," she replied, her voice full of hate.

"Good."

He removed the cuffs. She did consider attacking him, just for a moment. She fantasized about shooting her hands out, grabbing his neck, and squeezing with all the rage and sorrow in her heart, squeezing until his eyes exploded. But this, she knew, was pure fantasy. He was an experienced predator, alert to the tricks of his prey. Her wrists throbbed. It was a dull, deep pain. She welcomed the sensation. It reminded her of Sarah's birth. Beautiful, terrible agony.

"Do it," The Stranger commanded, his voice flat and taut. Linda looked at Sam, Sam with his eyes still closed, her beautiful man, her beautiful boy. He was strong in ways that she was weak, he had tenderness, he could be callous and arrogant, he had been responsible for her longest laughs and her strongest grief. He'd looked past her outer beauty to gaze upon the uglier parts of her, and had loved her still. He had never touched her in anger. They'd shared moments of sex as love and tenderness, and they'd fucked outdoors in a rainstorm, shivering as the cold water pelted their naked skin and she screamed above the wind.

Linda realized that she could continue this list forever. She reached out with her hands. They trembled. When they touched his neck, she choked.

Sense-memory.

The feel of Sam, igniting remembrance of another ten thousand moments. A million tiny paper cuts on her soul, she bled from them all.

He opened his eyes and a million cuts became a single, searing pain.

Of all his physical features, Linda loved Sam's eyes the most. They were gray, intense, surrounded by long eyelashes that any woman would envy. They were capable of such deep expression, of such emotion.

She remembered him looking at her with those eyes over a table on a wedding anniversary. He'd smiled at her.

"Do you know one of the things I love most about you?" he'd asked.

"What?"

"Your beautiful lunacy. The way you can arrange the chaos of a sculpture or a painting, but couldn't arrange an underwear drawer to save your life. The way you fumble through loving me and Sarah with your whole self. The way you never forget a shade of blue, but can never remember to pay the phone bill. You bring a wildness to my life that I'd be lost without."

Sam was loving her now, she could tell. Those eyes, those intense gray eyes, radiated emotion. Love, sadness, anger, pain, and joy. She fell into them, and she hoped he understood everything that she was feeling right now, every bit of it.

He winked once, and it made her laugh--a strangled laugh, but a laugh nonetheless--and then he closed his eyes again, and she knew he was ready, that she'd never be ready, but that the time was now. She started to squeeze.

"If you don't grip harder, he'll spend a long time dying," The Stranger said.

Linda squeezed harder. She could feel Sam's heartbeat beneath her fingers, could feel the life of him, and she began to cry. Deep, ropy sobs, wrenched from that undefinable part of her that was capable of hurting the most.

Sam could hear his wife crying. He could feel her hands tightening around his neck. She'd gripped in the right places; the blood flow to his brain was being cut off. It created a huge pressure in his head, along with a lightheadedness and a faint pain in his chest. His lungs were starting to burn.

He kept his eyes closed, looking into the black. He prayed that he'd be able to keep them closed while he died. He didn't want Linda to have to see him, to watch life leave him.

More burning now, panic was starting to come, he could sense it in the distance.

Fight it, Sam, he commanded himself. Hold on, it won't be long now, you'll pass out soon.

He would, he knew. He could feel it, black edges around his consciousness. Sparking. Once he fell into that blackness, that'd be it. That sparking was the last bit of himself. First he'd be enveloped by the black, and then he'd become the black.

Ooops . . .

He'd lost a moment there. Instead of sparks, there had been a flash, not of light, but of darkness. He realized that it wasn't something he was going to be aware of, it was going to sneak up on him. A flash of dark would come and then it would stay, forever. Another flash, but this one was brilliant, blinding, excruciating in its loveliness. He and Linda, naked in a rainstorm, the raindrops powerful and so cold . They shivered and they fucked and she was on top and lightning lit up the sky around her head as he came, so hard --