Secrets Part 6 and 7
Title: Secrets
by: melodywilde
Fandom: Secret Window / Assassins (the film with Antonio Banderas, not the Sondheim musical)
Characters or Pairings: Mort Rainey / Miguel Bain (from Assassins)
Rating: This part is NC-17.
Disclaimer: None of the characters in this story belong to me. I’m only borrowing them. Apologies for not always playing nicely with my toys. These folks belong to Stephen King, all the folks involved with the film Secret Window, and all the folks involved with the film Assassins.
Warning: This story contains insanity, bad language, violence, and graphic m/m sex, not all of it consensual, some of it graphic. If any of these things disturb you, get out now.
Summary: Mort Rainey decides it's time for a change, but the change isn't at all what he'd expected.
Notes / Betas / Thanks / Archive Notices and Cross Posts - This story is available on ff.net in a PG-R rated version. A big thanks to my amazing beta reader evilmissbecky.
Secrets
by Melody Wilde
Part 6
Get a grip, Morty old boy. Enough feeling sorry for yourself. You have to get up now. You have to move. Take care of yourself. Okay, you’re hurt, but you’re still alive. You’ll be okay. You can survive this-people do every day. You just need to get to the shower and wash and find something for the pain and then you’ll be good as new. Not that your “new” was all that good...
On the third attempt, he managed to lift his upper body from the bed and hold himself up with shaking forearms. Good enough. Close enough for government work. I am not going to try to sit up and put any weight on...no, don’t think about it.
He edged sideways, letting one knee drop from the bed to the floor. It hit hard, jarring him, sending him flat again and forcing him to cling desperately to the ruined bedspread until the lights dancing in front of his eyes had cleared.
Little setback there, but it’s okay.
He wrapped his hands around the bars of the headboard and pulled himself forward until his leg straightened, then pushed upward again. Don’t think. Just do it. And don’t throw up on yourself. Take deep breaths. It’s going to be okay. Okay, okay, okay.
He found himself standing, head down, hair falling across his face, legs spread apart for support-hurts less that way too-panting as if he’d run a marathon.
Take that first step now. You can do it. Think how good that shower’s going to feel, that nice warm water, remember how good it felt this morning...this morning…shit, was it only this morning that I stood in the shower jerking off? Seems like it was a fucking lifetime ago. Before I got fucked.
He giggled. Uh oh. Not good. No giggling…giggling sounds crazy. Get a grip, hang on, just start moving, you can do it.
When he took the first step, all desire to giggle fled. He clenched his teeth against the other sorts of sounds that began trying to claw their way out of his chest, then lurched toward the bathroom. Shower. I’ll shower. Feel better afterwards…
He shoved the bathroom door closed behind him and turned the lock, then leaned back against it. His eyes strayed to the bathroom mirror, and the creature staring back at him-white-faced, eyes huge and dark and empty-made him catch his breath. Jesus, I look like a ghoul. He forced himself to look away and take the last steps to the shower.
He groaned with pleasure as the water began to gush down on him, warm, cleansing, soothing. I could stand here for...for a very long time. He retrieved the soap, lathered his hands, and ran them slowly, carefully, across the front of his body. Go ahead. Don’t put it off. You know what you have to do. Do it. Bracing himself, he slid one soapy hand backwards and down. Oh god, this is going to hurt.
“Mort? Mort, are you in there?”
The voice startled him. He choked on a whimper. Bain. He must’ve heard the water running. Maybe if I’m quiet, he’ll go away and at least let me finish up here.
“Mort?” The tone was harsher now. “Answer me. Are you in there?”
What the fuck do you think-where else would I be? No, no, no. Not good. Do what he says.
“Mort.” It was definitely a threat now, one he recognized even in his current not-quite-all-with-it state. “Open the door.”
“I…just a minute…”
“I said open the door! Now!”
Oh…shit…
There was a crash, the splintering of wood, and then the shower door was flung back hard enough to make it jump its track. Bain was staring in at him, face was tight with fury.
“I told you to open the door,” he snapped in a voice cold as death. “Why did you lock it? Did you try to lock me out?”
“I…I…” Mort’s throat closed with terror.
“You tried to lock me out.”
“No. Please...”
Bain was moving, in the shower, crowding him, a hand knotting in his hair, holding him, the other hand fisting, beginning to pound into his body. Mort’s knees unlocked, his legs buckling.
“Why did you lock me out?” Bain slammed a forearm against Mort’s neck, keeping him upright, choking him. “I. Warned. You.” Bain punctuated each word with a blow. Arm. Chest. Stomach. “I. Warned. You. But. You. Did. Not. Listen.”
I did! I swear to god I did! I just…
Breathing heavily, Bain shifted, moving his arm, pressing his hands against Mort’s shoulders. “You must listen to me, Mort Rainey. You must do as I say. I do not like this loss of control that makes me do things like this.”
Yeah…funny thing…me neither.
Swamped with pain and struggling to stay on his feet, he was only marginally aware that Bain’s expression had changed. He felt Bain’s hands move downward to grasp, pull him forward, turn him, slam him face first against the wall of the shower. And then he heard the sound of a zipper being lowered.
Mort began to fight, knowing he shouldn’t, knowing his struggles were pitifully weak and useless, but unable to stop himself. Bain gave a short, humorless laugh at the effort, his upper body easily holding Mort in place while his hands fumbled below.
“I’m sorry there is no lubricant this time,” he growled in Mort’s ear as he positioned himself. “But it is your fault. You make me do this to punish you.”
Mort began to sob as Bain rammed brutally into him and took him, hard, fast, bruising his body against the porcelain with the force of each thrust. It went on forever. Forever. And then, with a strangled cry, Bain came. He stood there for a moment, still buried within Mort’s body, gasping for breath.
“Now perhaps you will remember that you must listen to what I say.”
Bain jerked himself free, spun, and stepped out of the shower. Mort heard his footsteps crossing the bedroom, going down the stairs. Trailing water all the way. I hope he doesn’t expect me to mop it up, because I think I’m going to...
Everything gave way. Mort slid bonelessly to the bottom of the tub, cracking his head against the metal and plexiglass of the door as he went down. He lay in a crumpled heap where he had fallen, motionless except for the sobs that jarred his chest, feeling the water that gushed down from the showerhead turn from a gentle warmth to icy cold.
I wonder if that’s water or blood…down there. I hope it’s blood. His stomach heaved, emptying itself, heaved again. I hope I’m bleeding to death. I want to die.
He began to shudder with the cold and the sickness and the pain. He thought he heard Shooter’s voice-“I sure did get a kick outta seein’ that one, Mr. Rainey”-and a dry laugh, but it flowed over him like the water, meaningless.
Finally, his mind let go and slipped away.
* * *
Someone was swearing loudly in Spanish. The sound and feel of the water cut off abruptly. A hand was touching his back, the side of his head.
“Mort? Mort!”
Sorry. Nobody here by that name.
* * *
Hands covered in terrycloth were moving gently but firmly over his body, drying, trying to rub back warmth and life. There was more Spanish, soft this time.
Sounds like some sort of prayer. Calling on God and Jesus and Mary and all those guys.
“Mort? Speak to me, please.”
Nope. Talk to your holy folks. I’m not home.
* * *
Warm. Warm warm warm. Feels good. So good. I was so fucking cold. All wrapped up. Soft…must be in bed. Warm.
“I need you to open your mouth and swallow this pill. Can you do this thing for me?”
Nope.
“Mort, open your mouth!”
He flinched. Follow orders, don’t fight. But the last time he had opened his mouth for this voice, it had led to kissing, which had been nice at first, and then to pain, which hadn’t. So much pain. I don’t want to remember it.
“Please? Oh please.”
Is he crying? It sounds like he’s crying. No, wrong, not him. I was the one crying like a baby. A big, wet, cold, hurt, fucked baby.
“Please, Mort. Please.”
Why not? Without opening his eyes, he let his lips part.
“Gracias, gracias.” Fingers were touching his mouth, slipping a pill inside. A hand went beneath his head, raising it, and the round plastic of a straw was tucked between his lips. Instinctively, he sucked in the water, washing the pill down.
Wonder what it was. Something to kill me?
His head was settled back on the pillow, and he thought he felt a soft kiss on his forehead.
* * *
Cold again, so so cold. What happened to the warm?
He could feel the weight of the covers tucked about him, but they were useless against the violence of his shivering. He whimpered, and the gentle hands were back, pressing against his forehead, holding the straw to his lips, stroking his hair. He tried to open his eyes, to see the angel who was touching him with such care, but they remained stubbornly glued shut.
I’m so cold.
* * *
“You don’t look so good, Mr. Rainey.”
He was outside the cabin, beside the cornfield. It was dark, with only the vaguest illumination from the stars reflecting on the newly fallen snow. It was freezing, and he’d stupidly come out dressed only in his t-shirt and cut-off jeans. He wrapped his arms around himself for warmth and turned to face Shooter.
“What the fuck do you want now?”
“Why, I told you. I come to watch. I come to see you get what you deserved for the things you made me do.”
“What things? What are you talking about?”
“You know what things. You just don’t want to let yourself know.”
“You’re crazy. You’re fucking crazy.” He began to edge away, wanting to get inside and slam the door. But the cabin seemed to be moving, avoiding him, shifting from side to side, always out of reach.
“You been havin’ a lot of trouble gettin’ away from things lately, ain’t you?”
Mort whirled and began to shove his way through the corn stalks, stalks that were still impossibly high despite the snow. And suddenly the small cornfield itself was huge. There was no end to it, no end, no escape.
“Why, Mort?”
“Amy!” She had appeared from between two rows, hands outstretched in supplication. “Oh god, Amy!”
He started toward her, but she shook her head, warning him away. “Why? Why did you make him do it?”
“Do what? Amy…”
He screamed as arms grabbed him from behind. He snapped his head to the side, and saw that he was being held by Ted Milner.
“Hey, Morty, old boy. How’s it going these days? Not so good, huh?”
“Not good at all.” Shooter came sauntering through the corn, nodding a greeting to the others. “You c’n let him go now.”
“What’s going on here?” Freed, Mort began to move again…only to take two steps and find himself with his back pressed against the wall of the cabin.
“I enjoyed watchin’ so much that now I’m thinkin’ I might like to get me a piece of that action.” He waved a hand at Ted, then Amy. “Might let them enjoy watchin’.” Shooter reached down to rub himself through the front of his pants.
“Not you too. You can’t…”
“Oh I can. And I am gonna enjoy this. I purely am.”
“No. This is a dream. You’re not real.”
Shooter laughed and grabbed him. “I never was, Mr. Rainey. I never was.” Then Shooter was shoving him to the ground and falling on top of him and Ted and Amy were laughing and Shooter was…
Mort flung his arms upward and began to shriek with terror.
* * *
I’m wet.
He managed to force one eye to open just enough to see where he was. Bathtub. I’m lying in the bathtub. I thought I was in bed. I thought…where are the shower doors? Who took them off?
There was a slight movement to one side and Bain leaned into view. Mort quickly let the eyelid close again, before Bain could see that he was awake. Am I? I think so.
“There, my friend. This is good.” Bain’s fingers brushed across his forehead. “Your fever has broken. So good. So good.”
Friend? When did I go from fucktoy back to being his friend?
He risked opening the eye again, just enough to peer from beneath the lashes. Bain was draining the water, then bending over him with a towel, drying him, touching his battered body with an astonishing gentleness. What’s going on here?
Bain slid his arms beneath Mort’s shoulders and knees, lifting him easily and cradling him like a child. Or a lover. Despite Bain’s care, there was still pain. A lot of pain. And he caused it. Don’t forget that.
A moan escaped from his lips, and Bain froze. “Mort? Are you awake?”
No. Not yet. Not yet.
* * *
Awareness came back in small bits of feeling. Warmth. A body cuddled against his. An arm circling him protectively. A shoulder pillowing his head. Soft, even breathing.
No pain. I’m not hurting anywhere.
He sighed with relief, and the breathing changed to that of someone awake and alert, although the body beside him remained relaxed. A whisper. “Mort?”
It’s Bain. Bain. Holding me like a lover, like he held me when…when? How long ago was that? How long have I been…not here?
“I know you’re awake.” Bain’s voice was soft, barely audible. “You don’t have to talk to me. I do not blame you. I have behaved…there are no words to describe the way I have behaved. I allowed the evil part of myself to take control of me, to hurt you, to take by force what I wanted to win with gentleness. And then, to make matters worse, I beat you and took you by force again.”
Oh yeah, you took by force all right. He shuddered involuntarily.
“Mort?”
“Just...” His voice sounded rough, as if unused for a time. Or raw from screaming. No, let’s not go there. “Don’t...don’t talk about...”
“All right.” Bain moved ever so slightly. “May I do this? Tell me if you want me to stop.” Bain’s hand lifted, then began to slide comfortingly down the back of Mort’s head, smoothing down, lifting, down again, lifting, a gentle, ceaseless caress.
Mort felt the tension begin to ease out of his body-tension he hadn’t even been aware of. He seems okay enough now. Like he was...before. He was... I liked him. A lot. I still could if he hadn’t...if I thought he wouldn’t...
He drifted away once more.
* * *
He was alone in the bed the next time he woke, wrapped in a cocoon of pillows and blankets. Snug as a bug in a rug. He slitted open an eye to peer around the room. Bain was sprawled half in and half out of Chico’s chair, which had been pulled in beside the bed at some time during the past few...what? hours? days? weeks? Bain’s head was tilted against the back of the chair, his jaw-stubble suggesting “days.” Even in sleep, Bain looked as exhausted as Mort felt.
I’ve been...sick. And he took care of me. I remember...
He shoved the memories of warm soup and cool cloths and light, loving touches away. Okay, he took care of me, but it was his fault that I needed to be taken care of. And what now? What happens when he wakes up? Will he still take care of me? Be good to me? Be my friend? Or is he going to...
“You’re awake.”
Bain was shifting in the chair, straightening, moving slowly, as if he didn’t want to frighten Mort. I guess it’s too late to pretend I’m not. He nodded.
“How do you feel?”
Confused. Scared. Sick to my stomach.
“Can I get something for you? Tea? Water? Something to eat?”
“Mountain Dew.”
“It is done.”
He tried to sit up while Bain was gone, but the effort was too much. The best he could do was free an arm from the covers and roll onto his back. Still hurts, there, there, there. Better, though. Just...so fucking weak.
“Here.” Bain was back, holding a glass filled with crushed ice and soda. “Let me help you.” He seated himself carefully on the edge of the bed and slipped an arm beneath Mort’s shoulders, lifting to allow Mort to sip at the liquid.
Tastes good.
“A little more?” Bain tilted the glass again, but Mort shook his head, refusing. “Is there anything else?”
“Tell me why.”
Bain froze. “Why I hurt you.”
“Yes.”
“Ah.” Bain eased Mort back onto the pillows and set the drink aside. “That is very difficult to explain, my friend. Even with all your imagination, I do not think you could understand what it is like to be...” He gestured helplessly. “Possessed by someone else inside your head.”
“Try me.”
The words startled Mort almost as much as they did Bain. Where the fuck did that come from? Did I just offer him a chance to explain? Explain why he held me prisoner and tied me up and raped me and beat me and…Jesus, he almost killed me!
“Oh he’s right, Mr. Rainey. You couldn’t never understand a thing like that, now could you?”
Mort’s head jerked sideways. Shooter was standing by the bed again, looking down at him with an amused smile on his face. “No, sir, you wouldn’t know nothin’ ‘bout havin’ an evil somebody inside your head takin’ over and doin’ all your dirty work for you.”
Mort flinched, involuntarily pressing his body closer to Bain’s for protection. “No.”
Bain glanced quickly over his shoulder, then back. “What is it? What is wrong?”
“Don’t you see...?” Mort looked up at Bain, then back at Shooter.
“See what? Tell me.”
Bain doesn’t see him. He fucking doesn’t see him! Just like Tom Greenleaf didn’t see him, that day on the road.
The memory of the nightmare came back. “You’re not real.” “I never was, Mr. Rainey. I never was.”
“Now you’re beginnin’ to catch on.” Shooter nodded and touched the brim of his hat. “Looks like I’m done here for now. I’d best be gettin’ on back.”
Gone. He’s just…gone. Vanished into thin air. How…
“Mort?”
Bain didn’t see him. He isn’t real. But...if he isn’t real...that means....
“Mort?”
That means there isn’t a John Shooter. It means I killed Ken and Tom. It means...it means that maybe Dave Newsome was right about me all along. Maybe Amy and Ted are dead. Maybe I did kill them. Maybe I’m a murderer, just like Bain. Maybe...
He began to giggle.
Maybe I’m crazy too.
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...
* * *
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...”
His face was pressed into the carpet, heavy hands on his shoulders, holding him down. “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 cocksucker...”
“Oh no, Mr. Rainey. That’s what you’re gonna be.” 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.
* * *
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.
by: melodywilde
Fandom: Secret Window / Assassins (the film with Antonio Banderas, not the Sondheim musical)
Characters or Pairings: Mort Rainey / Miguel Bain (from Assassins)
Rating: This part is NC-17.
Disclaimer: None of the characters in this story belong to me. I’m only borrowing them. Apologies for not always playing nicely with my toys. These folks belong to Stephen King, all the folks involved with the film Secret Window, and all the folks involved with the film Assassins.
Warning: This story contains insanity, bad language, violence, and graphic m/m sex, not all of it consensual, some of it graphic. If any of these things disturb you, get out now.
Summary: Mort Rainey decides it's time for a change, but the change isn't at all what he'd expected.
Notes / Betas / Thanks / Archive Notices and Cross Posts - This story is available on ff.net in a PG-R rated version. A big thanks to my amazing beta reader evilmissbecky.
Secrets
by Melody Wilde
Part 6
Get a grip, Morty old boy. Enough feeling sorry for yourself. You have to get up now. You have to move. Take care of yourself. Okay, you’re hurt, but you’re still alive. You’ll be okay. You can survive this-people do every day. You just need to get to the shower and wash and find something for the pain and then you’ll be good as new. Not that your “new” was all that good...
On the third attempt, he managed to lift his upper body from the bed and hold himself up with shaking forearms. Good enough. Close enough for government work. I am not going to try to sit up and put any weight on...no, don’t think about it.
He edged sideways, letting one knee drop from the bed to the floor. It hit hard, jarring him, sending him flat again and forcing him to cling desperately to the ruined bedspread until the lights dancing in front of his eyes had cleared.
Little setback there, but it’s okay.
He wrapped his hands around the bars of the headboard and pulled himself forward until his leg straightened, then pushed upward again. Don’t think. Just do it. And don’t throw up on yourself. Take deep breaths. It’s going to be okay. Okay, okay, okay.
He found himself standing, head down, hair falling across his face, legs spread apart for support-hurts less that way too-panting as if he’d run a marathon.
Take that first step now. You can do it. Think how good that shower’s going to feel, that nice warm water, remember how good it felt this morning...this morning…shit, was it only this morning that I stood in the shower jerking off? Seems like it was a fucking lifetime ago. Before I got fucked.
He giggled. Uh oh. Not good. No giggling…giggling sounds crazy. Get a grip, hang on, just start moving, you can do it.
When he took the first step, all desire to giggle fled. He clenched his teeth against the other sorts of sounds that began trying to claw their way out of his chest, then lurched toward the bathroom. Shower. I’ll shower. Feel better afterwards…
He shoved the bathroom door closed behind him and turned the lock, then leaned back against it. His eyes strayed to the bathroom mirror, and the creature staring back at him-white-faced, eyes huge and dark and empty-made him catch his breath. Jesus, I look like a ghoul. He forced himself to look away and take the last steps to the shower.
He groaned with pleasure as the water began to gush down on him, warm, cleansing, soothing. I could stand here for...for a very long time. He retrieved the soap, lathered his hands, and ran them slowly, carefully, across the front of his body. Go ahead. Don’t put it off. You know what you have to do. Do it. Bracing himself, he slid one soapy hand backwards and down. Oh god, this is going to hurt.
“Mort? Mort, are you in there?”
The voice startled him. He choked on a whimper. Bain. He must’ve heard the water running. Maybe if I’m quiet, he’ll go away and at least let me finish up here.
“Mort?” The tone was harsher now. “Answer me. Are you in there?”
What the fuck do you think-where else would I be? No, no, no. Not good. Do what he says.
“Mort.” It was definitely a threat now, one he recognized even in his current not-quite-all-with-it state. “Open the door.”
“I…just a minute…”
“I said open the door! Now!”
Oh…shit…
There was a crash, the splintering of wood, and then the shower door was flung back hard enough to make it jump its track. Bain was staring in at him, face was tight with fury.
“I told you to open the door,” he snapped in a voice cold as death. “Why did you lock it? Did you try to lock me out?”
“I…I…” Mort’s throat closed with terror.
“You tried to lock me out.”
“No. Please...”
Bain was moving, in the shower, crowding him, a hand knotting in his hair, holding him, the other hand fisting, beginning to pound into his body. Mort’s knees unlocked, his legs buckling.
“Why did you lock me out?” Bain slammed a forearm against Mort’s neck, keeping him upright, choking him. “I. Warned. You.” Bain punctuated each word with a blow. Arm. Chest. Stomach. “I. Warned. You. But. You. Did. Not. Listen.”
I did! I swear to god I did! I just…
Breathing heavily, Bain shifted, moving his arm, pressing his hands against Mort’s shoulders. “You must listen to me, Mort Rainey. You must do as I say. I do not like this loss of control that makes me do things like this.”
Yeah…funny thing…me neither.
Swamped with pain and struggling to stay on his feet, he was only marginally aware that Bain’s expression had changed. He felt Bain’s hands move downward to grasp, pull him forward, turn him, slam him face first against the wall of the shower. And then he heard the sound of a zipper being lowered.
Mort began to fight, knowing he shouldn’t, knowing his struggles were pitifully weak and useless, but unable to stop himself. Bain gave a short, humorless laugh at the effort, his upper body easily holding Mort in place while his hands fumbled below.
“I’m sorry there is no lubricant this time,” he growled in Mort’s ear as he positioned himself. “But it is your fault. You make me do this to punish you.”
Mort began to sob as Bain rammed brutally into him and took him, hard, fast, bruising his body against the porcelain with the force of each thrust. It went on forever. Forever. And then, with a strangled cry, Bain came. He stood there for a moment, still buried within Mort’s body, gasping for breath.
“Now perhaps you will remember that you must listen to what I say.”
Bain jerked himself free, spun, and stepped out of the shower. Mort heard his footsteps crossing the bedroom, going down the stairs. Trailing water all the way. I hope he doesn’t expect me to mop it up, because I think I’m going to...
Everything gave way. Mort slid bonelessly to the bottom of the tub, cracking his head against the metal and plexiglass of the door as he went down. He lay in a crumpled heap where he had fallen, motionless except for the sobs that jarred his chest, feeling the water that gushed down from the showerhead turn from a gentle warmth to icy cold.
I wonder if that’s water or blood…down there. I hope it’s blood. His stomach heaved, emptying itself, heaved again. I hope I’m bleeding to death. I want to die.
He began to shudder with the cold and the sickness and the pain. He thought he heard Shooter’s voice-“I sure did get a kick outta seein’ that one, Mr. Rainey”-and a dry laugh, but it flowed over him like the water, meaningless.
Finally, his mind let go and slipped away.
* * *
Someone was swearing loudly in Spanish. The sound and feel of the water cut off abruptly. A hand was touching his back, the side of his head.
“Mort? Mort!”
Sorry. Nobody here by that name.
* * *
Hands covered in terrycloth were moving gently but firmly over his body, drying, trying to rub back warmth and life. There was more Spanish, soft this time.
Sounds like some sort of prayer. Calling on God and Jesus and Mary and all those guys.
“Mort? Speak to me, please.”
Nope. Talk to your holy folks. I’m not home.
* * *
Warm. Warm warm warm. Feels good. So good. I was so fucking cold. All wrapped up. Soft…must be in bed. Warm.
“I need you to open your mouth and swallow this pill. Can you do this thing for me?”
Nope.
“Mort, open your mouth!”
He flinched. Follow orders, don’t fight. But the last time he had opened his mouth for this voice, it had led to kissing, which had been nice at first, and then to pain, which hadn’t. So much pain. I don’t want to remember it.
“Please? Oh please.”
Is he crying? It sounds like he’s crying. No, wrong, not him. I was the one crying like a baby. A big, wet, cold, hurt, fucked baby.
“Please, Mort. Please.”
Why not? Without opening his eyes, he let his lips part.
“Gracias, gracias.” Fingers were touching his mouth, slipping a pill inside. A hand went beneath his head, raising it, and the round plastic of a straw was tucked between his lips. Instinctively, he sucked in the water, washing the pill down.
Wonder what it was. Something to kill me?
His head was settled back on the pillow, and he thought he felt a soft kiss on his forehead.
* * *
Cold again, so so cold. What happened to the warm?
He could feel the weight of the covers tucked about him, but they were useless against the violence of his shivering. He whimpered, and the gentle hands were back, pressing against his forehead, holding the straw to his lips, stroking his hair. He tried to open his eyes, to see the angel who was touching him with such care, but they remained stubbornly glued shut.
I’m so cold.
* * *
“You don’t look so good, Mr. Rainey.”
He was outside the cabin, beside the cornfield. It was dark, with only the vaguest illumination from the stars reflecting on the newly fallen snow. It was freezing, and he’d stupidly come out dressed only in his t-shirt and cut-off jeans. He wrapped his arms around himself for warmth and turned to face Shooter.
“What the fuck do you want now?”
“Why, I told you. I come to watch. I come to see you get what you deserved for the things you made me do.”
“What things? What are you talking about?”
“You know what things. You just don’t want to let yourself know.”
“You’re crazy. You’re fucking crazy.” He began to edge away, wanting to get inside and slam the door. But the cabin seemed to be moving, avoiding him, shifting from side to side, always out of reach.
“You been havin’ a lot of trouble gettin’ away from things lately, ain’t you?”
Mort whirled and began to shove his way through the corn stalks, stalks that were still impossibly high despite the snow. And suddenly the small cornfield itself was huge. There was no end to it, no end, no escape.
“Why, Mort?”
“Amy!” She had appeared from between two rows, hands outstretched in supplication. “Oh god, Amy!”
He started toward her, but she shook her head, warning him away. “Why? Why did you make him do it?”
“Do what? Amy…”
He screamed as arms grabbed him from behind. He snapped his head to the side, and saw that he was being held by Ted Milner.
“Hey, Morty, old boy. How’s it going these days? Not so good, huh?”
“Not good at all.” Shooter came sauntering through the corn, nodding a greeting to the others. “You c’n let him go now.”
“What’s going on here?” Freed, Mort began to move again…only to take two steps and find himself with his back pressed against the wall of the cabin.
“I enjoyed watchin’ so much that now I’m thinkin’ I might like to get me a piece of that action.” He waved a hand at Ted, then Amy. “Might let them enjoy watchin’.” Shooter reached down to rub himself through the front of his pants.
“Not you too. You can’t…”
“Oh I can. And I am gonna enjoy this. I purely am.”
“No. This is a dream. You’re not real.”
Shooter laughed and grabbed him. “I never was, Mr. Rainey. I never was.” Then Shooter was shoving him to the ground and falling on top of him and Ted and Amy were laughing and Shooter was…
Mort flung his arms upward and began to shriek with terror.
* * *
I’m wet.
He managed to force one eye to open just enough to see where he was. Bathtub. I’m lying in the bathtub. I thought I was in bed. I thought…where are the shower doors? Who took them off?
There was a slight movement to one side and Bain leaned into view. Mort quickly let the eyelid close again, before Bain could see that he was awake. Am I? I think so.
“There, my friend. This is good.” Bain’s fingers brushed across his forehead. “Your fever has broken. So good. So good.”
Friend? When did I go from fucktoy back to being his friend?
He risked opening the eye again, just enough to peer from beneath the lashes. Bain was draining the water, then bending over him with a towel, drying him, touching his battered body with an astonishing gentleness. What’s going on here?
Bain slid his arms beneath Mort’s shoulders and knees, lifting him easily and cradling him like a child. Or a lover. Despite Bain’s care, there was still pain. A lot of pain. And he caused it. Don’t forget that.
A moan escaped from his lips, and Bain froze. “Mort? Are you awake?”
No. Not yet. Not yet.
* * *
Awareness came back in small bits of feeling. Warmth. A body cuddled against his. An arm circling him protectively. A shoulder pillowing his head. Soft, even breathing.
No pain. I’m not hurting anywhere.
He sighed with relief, and the breathing changed to that of someone awake and alert, although the body beside him remained relaxed. A whisper. “Mort?”
It’s Bain. Bain. Holding me like a lover, like he held me when…when? How long ago was that? How long have I been…not here?
“I know you’re awake.” Bain’s voice was soft, barely audible. “You don’t have to talk to me. I do not blame you. I have behaved…there are no words to describe the way I have behaved. I allowed the evil part of myself to take control of me, to hurt you, to take by force what I wanted to win with gentleness. And then, to make matters worse, I beat you and took you by force again.”
Oh yeah, you took by force all right. He shuddered involuntarily.
“Mort?”
“Just...” His voice sounded rough, as if unused for a time. Or raw from screaming. No, let’s not go there. “Don’t...don’t talk about...”
“All right.” Bain moved ever so slightly. “May I do this? Tell me if you want me to stop.” Bain’s hand lifted, then began to slide comfortingly down the back of Mort’s head, smoothing down, lifting, down again, lifting, a gentle, ceaseless caress.
Mort felt the tension begin to ease out of his body-tension he hadn’t even been aware of. He seems okay enough now. Like he was...before. He was... I liked him. A lot. I still could if he hadn’t...if I thought he wouldn’t...
He drifted away once more.
* * *
He was alone in the bed the next time he woke, wrapped in a cocoon of pillows and blankets. Snug as a bug in a rug. He slitted open an eye to peer around the room. Bain was sprawled half in and half out of Chico’s chair, which had been pulled in beside the bed at some time during the past few...what? hours? days? weeks? Bain’s head was tilted against the back of the chair, his jaw-stubble suggesting “days.” Even in sleep, Bain looked as exhausted as Mort felt.
I’ve been...sick. And he took care of me. I remember...
He shoved the memories of warm soup and cool cloths and light, loving touches away. Okay, he took care of me, but it was his fault that I needed to be taken care of. And what now? What happens when he wakes up? Will he still take care of me? Be good to me? Be my friend? Or is he going to...
“You’re awake.”
Bain was shifting in the chair, straightening, moving slowly, as if he didn’t want to frighten Mort. I guess it’s too late to pretend I’m not. He nodded.
“How do you feel?”
Confused. Scared. Sick to my stomach.
“Can I get something for you? Tea? Water? Something to eat?”
“Mountain Dew.”
“It is done.”
He tried to sit up while Bain was gone, but the effort was too much. The best he could do was free an arm from the covers and roll onto his back. Still hurts, there, there, there. Better, though. Just...so fucking weak.
“Here.” Bain was back, holding a glass filled with crushed ice and soda. “Let me help you.” He seated himself carefully on the edge of the bed and slipped an arm beneath Mort’s shoulders, lifting to allow Mort to sip at the liquid.
Tastes good.
“A little more?” Bain tilted the glass again, but Mort shook his head, refusing. “Is there anything else?”
“Tell me why.”
Bain froze. “Why I hurt you.”
“Yes.”
“Ah.” Bain eased Mort back onto the pillows and set the drink aside. “That is very difficult to explain, my friend. Even with all your imagination, I do not think you could understand what it is like to be...” He gestured helplessly. “Possessed by someone else inside your head.”
“Try me.”
The words startled Mort almost as much as they did Bain. Where the fuck did that come from? Did I just offer him a chance to explain? Explain why he held me prisoner and tied me up and raped me and beat me and…Jesus, he almost killed me!
“Oh he’s right, Mr. Rainey. You couldn’t never understand a thing like that, now could you?”
Mort’s head jerked sideways. Shooter was standing by the bed again, looking down at him with an amused smile on his face. “No, sir, you wouldn’t know nothin’ ‘bout havin’ an evil somebody inside your head takin’ over and doin’ all your dirty work for you.”
Mort flinched, involuntarily pressing his body closer to Bain’s for protection. “No.”
Bain glanced quickly over his shoulder, then back. “What is it? What is wrong?”
“Don’t you see...?” Mort looked up at Bain, then back at Shooter.
“See what? Tell me.”
Bain doesn’t see him. He fucking doesn’t see him! Just like Tom Greenleaf didn’t see him, that day on the road.
The memory of the nightmare came back. “You’re not real.” “I never was, Mr. Rainey. I never was.”
“Now you’re beginnin’ to catch on.” Shooter nodded and touched the brim of his hat. “Looks like I’m done here for now. I’d best be gettin’ on back.”
Gone. He’s just…gone. Vanished into thin air. How…
“Mort?”
Bain didn’t see him. He isn’t real. But...if he isn’t real...that means....
“Mort?”
That means there isn’t a John Shooter. It means I killed Ken and Tom. It means...it means that maybe Dave Newsome was right about me all along. Maybe Amy and Ted are dead. Maybe I did kill them. Maybe I’m a murderer, just like Bain. Maybe...
He began to giggle.
Maybe I’m crazy too.
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...
* * *
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...”
His face was pressed into the carpet, heavy hands on his shoulders, holding him down. “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 cocksucker...”
“Oh no, Mr. Rainey. That’s what you’re gonna be.” 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.
* * *
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.